


A Better Class of Criminal

by Agent0fChaos (wir_sind_die_Jager)



Series: Power and Chaos [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, M/M, Mind Games, Physical Abuse, Sexual Violence, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wir_sind_die_Jager/pseuds/Agent0fChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker has decided to take on a new project: the transformation of his beguiled shrink turned accomplice Harley Quinn. He will twist her mind, scar her body and return to the streets of Gotham once more to entice the citizens of the dark city to embrace the one true philosophy of life: power and chaos. (SEQUEL to Simply Makes You Stranger)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King of Clubs: Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: This fanfic was written and posted on Livejournal in the summer of 2008, directly after The Dark Knight was released. I'm posting this on AO3 in case Livejournal goes belly up (I think LJ will inherit the Earth along with roaches and Twinkies, but one can never be sure). There are NO references to "The Dark Knight Rises" because it was hardly a twinkle in Nolan's eye at the time this fic was written.  
> I incorporated elements from B:TAS and the DCU in this fanfic to flesh out the limited scope of the Nolanverse. Characters and relationships will be added as the fanfic is updated. It is encouraged that you read "Simply Makes You Stranger" first as this fic picks up directly after that one ends.
> 
> ALSO: Although this fanfic depicts graphic abuse, please know I do not romanticize nor condone it. If you or a loved one need help, please know there are free and confidential resources there to help, such as: http://www.feminist.org/911/crisis.html

“This town deserves a better class of criminal...and I’m going to give it to them.”

\- The Joker,  _The Dark Knight_

Joker could feel himself waking up before he was actually physically able to. He knew not to expect her there but he had slept through her departure so he didn’t know for sure. The guard on duty was new so the Joker knew he must have slept through half of the morning.

_Don’t wake the guy whose crimes have secured your funding for the next several years or anything_ , thought the Joker sarcastically as he hoisted himself up to a sitting position, leaning back on his arms. He ran his long fingers through his sweat slicked greenish brown hair, relieved that he had the foresight to put his pants back on at some point in time.  _Wouldn’t want the guard to think I’m some crazy pervert._        

             _Speaking of being a few bananas short of the bunch_...Joker felt around his cot, his Glasgow grin spreading as his fingers found the knife his doctor had lovingly brought to him last night. Like a delectable dessert on a silver platter. Not to mention her lascivious body to give the new tool a test run on. Like a white canvas she was laid out before him (well, under him) doing her best to prove she could really take to his kind of art. She was jumpy at first, squirming under the blade as it went from cold to hot with a mere flick of his wrist. He was precise, though. When she had her fill he stayed awake to etch out a real work of art. He wasn’t going to just slice her up and be done with it, no, no, no.

She would be a masterpiece, a complete triumph with his steady hand and careful attention to detail. He managed to finish one design last night but his subject woke up, interested in far more physically demanding activities...It was all he could do to get his work done  _and_  keep up with his nymphet.

            “What the hell are you so happy about?”

Joker snapped his attention back to reality. The guard was glaring at him. He was a guard the Joker could not even bring himself to converse with. An oaf, a bumbling moron who should not be handling a fire arm least he goof up and shoot himself in the foot. Joker refused to answer him, instead tucking away his knife between the rusting springs of his cot. She was foolish to have left it here with him but he would return it soon enough.

            “You think you’re sleeping beauty or something?” the ogre demanded. “You missed out on breakfast; you’re gonna have to hold out ‘til lunch. Unless of course you plan on sleeping through that meal too.” So that was it. The ogre missed his morning meal of pillaged villagers.

             _That’s all right_ , the Joker thought to himself.  _I don’t mind waiting ‘til lunch...I’m still full from last night._

 

* * *

 

            “What’s with him?” asked Jonathan Crane to Harvey Dent later that day in the recreation room. They were playing chess together, becoming increasingly distracted by the Joker who was whistling the Merry Melodies jingle on the couch, bobbing his head to the tune, even as the television was on breaking news on the SWAT team lost in the river during the Joker’s violent car chase to capture and kill Harvey Dent. All of the bodies had now been recovered by divers and were in the process of being properly identified for burial. Whistling made his already damaged face puff out even more, an absurd, slightly hideous caricature of the cartoons he so loved.

            “I dunno,” growled Harvey. “Hey, Joker,” he barked. “What’s with you?”

            “Can’t a man just be happy to be alive?”

            “No.”

            “Well, I guess I can’t fool you two...or  _three_ ,” he added under his breath with a chuckle. Harvey ignored him, his therapy actually beginning to work. Joker got up and joined them at their table, ready to snatch a rook and make a move if Crane hadn’t grabbed it away first. “Now if you want me to share you’ll both have to solemnly swear not to tell another soul. Cross your hearts? Hope to die? Jab a jagged shard of glass in your eye?”

            “If you didn’t want to tell us you wouldn’t be putting on such a show about it,” said Crane analytically. Joker scowled. He really did not like this guy.

            “You know, Crane, I’ve decided that I am  _not_  going to miss you at all.”

            “Miss me? Are you going somewhere?” A vague hope began to rise that the Joker was going to be transferred.

Harvey eyed the lunatic. “You’re going to escape?”

            “Escape is such a low-brow word,” said the Joker with the flutter of his long fingers. “I like to think of it more as...moving on.”

            “Take me with you!” Crane hissed, grabbing the Joker’s sleeve. Joker shook him off and pulled away.

            “Desperation doesn’t smell good on you, Scarecrow! No, no, sorry but my aim is a bit higher then scouring alley ways for lab rats. Not to mention my operation is best a solo act. You’ll just have to live through me vicariously as you watch it all unfold on the six o’clock news.”

            “Just what are you planning?” Crane asked, his eyes narrowing.

            “Now, now, Scarecrow,” Joker ruffled his hair roughly. “If I told you it would ruin the anticipation. And I just  _love_  the rush of anticipation, don’t you?”

Crane shooed and swatted the Joker away from him, crossing his arms in a petulant huff.

            “Why are you telling us this?” Harvey asked suspiciously. Before he would have knocked the Joker out and ratted on him in an instant. Now he just didn’t care. Let the Joker burn down the world. Maybe Harvey would get lucky and actually be taken out this time.

            Joker laughed and threw his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know!” He leaned in and said in a deeper voice, “Maybe I just like to conduct a few experiments of my own.”

           

* * *

 

 

            She had an addiction now and Harleen needed to figure out how to get her fix on a daily basis without raising eyebrows. She knocked out one guard with her hypodermic needle filled with liquid sleep but there was no way she could continue to do so nightly. One guard thinking he had falling asleep on the job once is one thing; a wave of guards suddenly overcome with narcoleptic tendencies would bring up questions. They would skip over her and focus their blame directly at the Joker. Not that he would give her away but they might relocate him or worse take him away from her, thinking he needed a veteran tough guy to straighten him out. It would be hell. Excuses to visit him randomly during day light hours outside of their scheduled sessions would get old as well. No, she needed a legit, plausible cause to be with her obsession.

            Pacing Dr. Leland’s office, Harleen went over and over her story in her head. She was running on three hours sleep, having gone home sometime before five in the morning. She slept through her usual wake up time, showered and dressed during the time she typically reserved for the gym. It would have to wait. Harleen had not even eaten yet, she was still flying from the night before.

            “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Dr. Leland kindly, shutting the door behind her. She stopped and looked at Harleen, clearly impressed. “My, don’t you look professional today, Dr. Quinzel.”

            “Thank you.” Harleen replied, sitting across from Dr. Leland at her desk. She traded her trademark naughty secretary style for classic professional, swapping her tight skirts for long slacks and peek-a-boo tops for vested blouses. It wasn’t so much as to make an impression as it was to cover up the dozens of markings the Joker left on her body. She didn’t have the time to play wardrobe and figure out what outfit covered up what cut or which blouse could hide the most bite marks.

            “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s about the Joker,” said Harleen in her best even-toned voice. She mastered it on the drive to work.

            “Has he been giving you any problems?” Dr. Leland asked in a matronly manner.

            “No, nothing like that. His attitude is rarely more than indifferent and sometimes he conveys a positive aspect on the evaluation...which is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

            “Oh?”

Harleen scooted her chair closer and placed her folded hands on Dr. Leland’s desk, a look of seriousness behind her reading glasses. “Frankly, Dr. Leland, I don’t think every other day is enough. This is a deeply disturbed man. Now, I don’t want you to be upset with me but I read his file. Now, please don’t interrupt. I still have the same objectivity and clear mind as I did the first day I met with him. I wasn’t home, remember? I am still detached from the events and him. But in my opinion, a psychosis of this magnitude requires extensive, daily therapy. The nature of his mind goes beyond the run-of-the-mill criminal, Dr. Leland.”

            “Sounds like you already have a theory.”

            “As a matter of fact, I do. As you are aware, my studies are in extreme personalities and it is my theory that the Joker has such a complex personality that he has taken to reinventing himself, a tactic he has meticulously honed over years. As for how frequent he does this...” Harleen shook her head empathetically. “It may be a daily routine.”

Dr. Leland sat in deep thought.

            “Not to mention his trial,” Harleen added, the ace up her sleeve. “It may be months away but I feel that I have barely scratched the surface. If the judge wants a complete, comprehensive study on him I don’t know how confident I feel about being able to deliver it, knowing I only saw him for four to five hours out of an entire week.”

            “It’s too early to think of the trial,” said Dr. Leland. “Bodies are being uncovered on a daily basis and due to the arrest of several policemen and Harvey Dent’s incarceration here it is going to be a long time before the Joker ever sits in another courtroom.”

            Anxiety washed over Harleen; her plan hadn’t worked. What was he going to say? What would she do? Maybe she could convince him to leave earlier than thirty days. She would be exposed earlier than she anticipated but it would be well worth it to have him all to herself, all of the time.

            “But be that as it may I think your theory has a lot of merit. It is through close observation you might be able to unlock something about the Joker. Even something seemingly insignificant can lead us to something big, which would benefit all involved. I’m willing to give you the time you requested for this – that is, as long as you think you can remain detached to the patient and objective?”

            “Of course, Dr. Leland,” said a now confident Harleen. “You have nothing to fear.”

 

* * *

 

            She worked fast, he’ll give her that much. Marveled by his pet’s ability to manipulate her superiors into giving them more time together the Joker didn’t know if wanted to kiss her or kick her. Like a lovesick puppy she demanded a lot of attention and a reputedly insatiable amount of petting.

            “Keep this on you at all times,” he ordered, giving her back the knife. He had carved a sheath into the sole of his shoe for safekeeping until he could return it to her. He didn’t put it pass the guards to inspect his cell while he was away. She took back the knife, confused. His voice cold and he seemed distracted as he demanded pen and paper. Sitting at her desk he began to write out a kind of list. She tried to look over his shoulder but he swatted her away like a buzzing fly. Crushed, she sat in his usual chair, sulking. When he was done he stood up and held out the paper.

            “There’s a lot to do before I’m back up and running,” he said, handing her the paper. “But I know you can do it.”

            “Me?” she replied, reading the list. “This...some of this is just impossible. How am-“ She cried out as he pulled her by the ponytail onto her knees and forced her back, arching painfully as she was forced to look at him, an expression of calm across his scarred face.

            “You’re going to have to get over this habit of self-doubt before you even try. It’s  _very_  unattractive.” He threw her down but she managed to catch herself before falling on her face. He stepped over her and sat in his chair. “You’re a smart cookie; I trust you can figure it all out.” He leaned down and gently helped her back up to a kneeling position. Tenderly he lifted her chin and caressed her bottom lip with his thumb. “I would help you pumpkin but if you remember I’m in here. And I can’t leave until all of the things on that list are taken care of.”

            Harleen looked down at the list of impossibilities. “Yes, sir,” she replied meekly.

            “Think of this list as a kind of test.”

            “Test?”

Beaming, the Joker interlaced his fingers and eyed her challengingly. “If you want to be with me, you are going to have to learn to keep up with me. Otherwise you will get left behind and forgotten in the rubble. “

            “I don’t want to be left behind,” she whispered fearfully. “I need you.”

 _I know_ , thought the Joker darkly. “Then there you are.” He gestured to the paper.

            “OK,” she said reluctantly, folding up the paper and getting up to put it in her purse. “I’ll do my best.”

            “You will have to do better than that,” answered the Joker in a sing-song voice. Swallowing hard, Harleen did not reply. She started to walk back over when he cracked his knuckles and looked at her expectedly, causing her to stop. “Well? What are you waiting for,  _Dr. Quinzel_? Another formal written invitation? Bring me my knife.”

            Reeling from the contradiction, Harleen automatically did as she was told and gave him back the dagger. Smiling he balanced it in one hand, flipped it over twice and placing the cool blade against her flushed cheek turned his wicked smile on her. “Now take off that hideous blouse... _right this instant_.”

           

* * *

 

 

            A number of the assignments were well within her capabilities and could have been achieved straightaway. Of course the Joker wouldn’t acquiesce to that at all. He wanted her to accomplish the riskier chores first.

            “But what if I can’t?” she had pleaded, knelt down, hugging him tightly around his knees as he sat coolly like a conqueror on his throne. “What if I get caught?”

            “Ho-hum,” he had sighed theatrically. “I guess I was too hasty to choose you then. Oh, well, it might not be too late to find another-“

            “No!” she’d shouted, squeezing him tighter. Crawling up onto his lap like a kitten she threw her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him, only to have him turn his face away coldly.

            “I used to think it was a cliché to say this but actions really do speak louder than words.” Illustrating his point he shoved her off of his lap, watching her dispassionately crumble into a heap of broken confidence at his feet.

            Joker wouldn’t touch her until she had two big items completed. Would hardly look at her, not even run the knife against her, taste her blood or work on his designs. She tried begging at first; quickly finding out that this just enraged him. Then she attempted to play apathetic but he was the lord and master of it and her act did not last long. Lastly and desperately she tried to turn the tables on him and get angry but all of her yelling and threats fell on deaf, stubborn ears. After the third day of failing miserably to get a rise out of him she finally submitted to him and his list.

            

            Now she stood outside the Gotham Major Crimes Unit. Under the cover of darkness, in a costume she thought too accurate to be sold legally at a costume store, Harleen Quinzel took a deep breath and walked right up the steps and into her new life of crime.

            It was easy as pie. Everyone smiled at her, if they weren’t distracted doing other things. Even though it was nearly two months ago, the wreckage from the Joker’s phone bomb was evident everywhere: busted out computers heaped in a pile, waiting to be disposed of safely, filing cabinets stuffed so thick the drawers wouldn’t close. The crime scene itself, the holding tank that obliterated several lives, was cleaned from its broken glass and blood stains but nobody went near it. Their own police tape still covered the gaping hole where a door once stood. Digging under her hat where her long blonde hair was swept up she plucked out a lighter and held it close to her chest, surveying the damage with contempt.

             _Well that’s what they get for trying to lock him up._

             

* * *

 

            “Let me in there!”

            “Commissioner,” Dr. Bartholomew said warningly, his arms spread out to keep the law enforcer back. “You are going to have to respect our position. I cannot have you yelling and storming around Arkham, agitating our wards.”

            “You wards? That man is a psychopath! If you refuse to let me question him I’ll have you downtown for obstruction of justice-“

            “You can question him, Gordon, just calm down,  _please_.”

Joker waited at the end of his bed as a visibly aggravated Jim Gordon appeared before his cell. Dr. Bartholomew stood right behind him with his arms crossed, daring Gordon to get out of hand.

            “You really just can’t get enough of me, Commissioner,” the Joker chuckled pleasantly.

            “I don’t know how you keep appearing around the city while you are supposedly locked up here but this is getting too far.”

            “Now, listen here, Gordon,” Dr. Bartholomew said warningly, “If you are questioning the quality of our establishment and its employees-“

            “I’m not questioning Arkham, Bartholomew,” snarled Gordon, jerking his shoulder from the doctor’s grip. “I’m questioning this...monster!”

            Calm as ever, the Joker replied, “I sincerely have no idea what you are talking about.”          

            Gordon slammed his fist against the bullet proof Plexiglas. “The hell you don’t!”

            “Maybe if you shared with me the cause of your anger we could settle this? Certainly throwing yourself at my cell and flying spittle on the clean glass is getting you nowhere.”

            “Someone infiltrated the MCU last night,” Gordon said to Dr. Bartholomew, unable to look at the Joker any longer. “They set fire to the drawer containing every shred of paper we had on him.”

            “Oh, my,” replied Dr. Bartholomew, who had not imagined anything more than another one of those petty graffiti messages.

            “Now why would I care what sort of love letters you have about me?” Joker said in a tone of mock of exasperation. “It’s not like you couldn’t identify me...you already have my prints and pictures in your computer.”

            “You mean the computer your cell phone bomb destroyed?”

            “Oh,” he replied quietly with a mask of sincere regret. “Now that is a shame.”

            “Commissioner,” said Dr. Bartholomew. “It’s not like there is any question as to whether or not the Joker committed these crimes...”

            “No but without those files, dozens of reports, complaints and interviews? The videos he sent in? The calling cards?” As he listed the casualties, Gordon became enraged all over again and kicked the steel door frame of the empty cell opposite the Joker’s. “We’ll practically have to rebuild the entire case.”

            “I thought you got rid of those miscreant coppers?” asked the Joker, unable to help his smile.

            “Those cops worked for Maroni. No one on my team is going to risk their lives lighting a match for you. This is your work.”

            Joker sneered, “Because they give me such wonderfully loose privileges here...like phone calls and visitors?”

            “I don’t doubt that it is highly improbable you made contact with some of your followers but just the fact that these misguided souls are still under your control is enough for me to come down here and investigate. You’re a little notorious for finding unique ways to get things done.”

            “Too bad you no longer have the Batman at your side, eh?” said the Joker, wagging his head. “Could have him slap me around a bit and then you think you would have your answers.” Gordon seethed silently as the Joker tilted his head in thought. “I wouldn’t have torched my cards, though. Those suckers didn’t come cheap; I had to buy in bulk!”

            Dr. Bartholomew put his hands up before Gordon could erupt again.

“Let’s go back up to my office and talk about this together, Jim. There are still dozens of escaped patients from Jonathan Crane’s breakout...the Joker is magnetic with a lot of our patients here...” He eyed the Joker, who was staring up at him with an unreadable expression on his marred face, his tongue snaking out to give in to his compulsive habit of licking his wounds, literally. “His cause could have likely appealed to a number of our patients still at large. Why don’t we go up to my office, you can tell me all of the details and we can go over the files of the missing patients and see if we can put together a profile...”

            Gordon knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with the Joker. Anytime he tried talking to him always ended in disaster to those around him. Bartholomew was right, of course. The Joker was clearly here the entire time...there’s no way he could be in two places at once.

             _And yet..._

Gordon looked over his shoulder even as Dr. Bartholomew led the way back up to ground level, away from this hellish corridor.

             _It is foolhardy of modern civilization to have giving up believing in the devil when he is the only explanation for it._  
  


* * *

            

            The former doctor Crane was in the nurse’s station, sitting center around their little flock, lapping up the attention they were giving him. It was still beyond them that he was insane and belonged on the other side of the glass. He was so intelligent, still young and even to some of the ladies, handsome. None of the nurses had as much formal education as Crane and enjoyed listening to him talk.

            “Makes me SICK!” the Joker cried from his position, crouched down backwards on the couch with the top of his head and hands only visible. Crane made a face but ignored him. Joker sang off-key, “You’re not sup-po-sed to be on that side, Crane. Not. Any. More.”

            Fed up, Jonathan stood up and slammed his hands on the counter. “At least I’m still able to relate to other human beings!”

            The Joker gasped, boggling. “And you think that’s a good thing, Scarecrow?”

            “At least I wasn’t born and raised from jackal’s with the number 666 tattooed on my skull!”

            “Please, Crane. If I were the antichrist my shenanigans would be a lot bigger, don’t you think?” Jonathan ignored him, sitting back down amongst the nurses to return back to their conversation. Hating to be ignored, the Joker threw a chess piece at them. It crashed against the chicken wire and glass before clattering on the counter. Nurse Ratched stood up and glared warningly at him.

            “Knock it off Joker.”

            Ducking lower so only his eyes were visible from the top of the couch, he merely glowered at her.

            

* * *

 

            “If you wiggle one more time I’m going to feed you your own thumbs.”

The Joker smacked her thigh, leaving a red handprint behind. She apologized and tried to hold steady, gripping the wooden ends of the arms of the chair for further bracing.

            He had been pleased of her success and was now finishing up the  _objet d’art_ on her back, his left arm cradling her bare torso, coming up from under her arm to grab hold of her right breast. With his right hand he worked out the last touches of the scarification, the blade held as firm and expertly as van Gough’s paintbrush. 

            It hurt like hell on fire but with every pierce of her skin there was an equal act of something pleasurable, be it a caress, twist or rub. He had her carefully balanced on his left leg, mindful to keep hers apart.

            “Did you remember my clothes?” he remembered to ask.

            “At my apartment,” she answered breathlessly.

            “And the list?”

            “Your card key is on my desk. I ordered the drugs...I have a limit but I ordered them in Dr. Leland and Dr. Bartholomew’s names. Expedited shipping should have them here Saturday...and Dr. Leland won’t be here to sign for it.”

            “Excellent,” the Joker hissed between his teeth. “You know, I have been thinking...we really cannot go on with these silly titles that your former life has given us. You are no longer a doctor as I have never really been a patient.”

            She knew him well enough not to reply when he paused unless specifically asked a question. When he was this intently focused on his work he often started a train of thought out loud and continued it internally. Harleen thought this was one of those instances but was proven wrong when he put down his knife and dabbed her back with the astringent soaked washcloth he had ordered her to bring him to mop up her blood.

            “I’ve been retooling your name and now that I am finished I want to see my masterpiece from afar and see if it fits.” He ordered her to stand up and walk towards the window, her back towards him. Every step was like daggers, her back raw and aflame with searing pain, but she did it until he told her to stop and stand still.

            Holding up his hands in a framing position, like an artist mentally eyeing a vision on the verge of completion, the Joker admired his work.

            “Yes, I think you’ll do...I think you’ll do just fine, Harley Quinn.”

   


	2. Jack of Spades: Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to.” – George Santayana

“Wow, lady, who did that?”

The tattoo artist reached out a hand to caress the immaculate shapes on Harley’s back, mesmerized by their perfection.

“Never mind,” said Harley curtly from behind her curtain of blonde hair as she sat in the chair, the back of her shirt lifted up over her head.

“Must be some kind of pro,” he said admiringly, disinfecting his tools. “I can tell he’s been doing it for years.”

 _You have no idea,_  thought Harley with a secretive grin, thinking back to the day before when her Mister J was so thrilled he had finished his designs and bestowed her new name that he had promptly tore off her clothes and fucked her brains out on top of her own desk.

“I gotta say,” said the tattoo artist conversationally. “I almost took down that design once that Joker guy started blowin’ up people. Never got around to it got busy or something...but you’re the first person who has asked for it in a long time.”

“Think I’ll be the last?” she asked.

“Eh, who’s to say? People are weird. Uh, that’s not to say you’re weird...I mean, being a paying customer and all. I hope you don’t mind my saying...I just think it a little unusual.”

“Think whatever you like,” muttered Harley, weary of his voice.

“So which ones you want to do first? The centerpiece or the scars?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have all night and cash in hand.”

“Sounds good to me.”

 

* * *

 

With the pass key the good doctor illegally made for him, the Joker would be able to get out of his cell when the time was right. He kept it on him at all times, in the pocket made from the sole of his shoe where he kept the knife briefly. Unable to help himself, the Joker showed off his pass key card to Jonathan Crane in the common room.

“Who made that for you?” Crane asked, visibly jealous.

Joker cackled in his face, “You can torture me all you like; I’ll never turn stoolie, copper!”

Crane lunged across the table, his hands enclosed around the Joker’s throat as he knocked them both to the ground. Crowing with maniacal laughter, the Joker only fought Crane enough to be able to sneak his pass card back into its sheath before the guards got to them. That horrid Ratched nurse was coming from round the nurse’s station.

“Hey, psst,” sniggered the Joker, wobbling limply so the guards had to hold him by his arms and continuously adjust their grip on him. “I think Crane has a little crush on me...He just can’t keep his hands off of me!”

“That’s it!” shouted Ratched as the men were pulled apart, Crane still lashing out and the Joker unable to stand from his hysterics. “It’s time you two learned some restraint.”

Some ten minutes later both the Scarecrow and the Joker were glowering as they sat on opposite ends of the threadbare couch in straightjackets.

Keeping his grin glowing for the wary orderlies and nurses, the Joker muttered so only Jonathan could hear him. “Crane, you better pray we don’t meet on the outside. I am going to twist a knife so far down your throat it’s gonna come out of your backside... _you fucking little bitch_.”

Jonathan turned away from him, refusing to sink any lower.

“I fail to see why  _I_  need to be restrained,” said the Joker loudly as Ratched walked past.

“You were hitting him back,” she said angrily. “Not to mention you antagonized him.”

“Are you trying to insinuate that I had it coming?” the Joker gasped mockingly. She just gave him a heavy stare.

“He has a pass key,” tattled Crane in a huffy voice.

Snorting as he shook with convulsive laughter, the Joker replied, “If I had a pass key, would I really still be here?” He shot a glare at the Scarecrow. “Or you for that matter.”

Ratched, her hands on her hips, shook her head disapprovingly at Crane. “Stop being petulant, Jonathan.” She returned to the nurse’s station.

“Yeah, Crane, stop being a crank...just because you harbor unrequited love for me doesn’t mean you have to be a complete tool about it.” Out of the corner of his mouth, Joker whispered loudly, “Don’t worry, Scarecrow. Someday your prince will come.”

His mouth agape, Jonathan Crane could not believe the audacity of this vile man. While his mind conjured many snappy comebacks, the Scarecrow became aware of the Joker fidgeting on the other end of the couch. Dumbfounded, Crane watched as the Joker wiggled and writhed until astonishingly he broke free from the straightjacket, jumping up as he whipped it off.

“Ta da!” he shouted, startling the staff. “It’s magic!”

“Take him back to his cell and don’t bring him back until I say so!” shouted Ratched to the orderlies. They dragged the laughing criminal back down to the underbelly of Arkham, the Joker raving at the top of his lungs.

“I am the next Houdini! No straightjacket can contain my awesome powers of escape! Watch death defying acts as I strike terror in the hearts of men, women and children with my incredible disappearing trick!”

“Holy shit,” whispered Crane under his breath. “He really is going to escape.”

 

* * *

 

Roughly tossing him into his cell, the orderlies stood outside of the Joker’s padded room for a few moments to debate.

“Should we send a guard down here to watch him?”

“Nah; he just wanted some attention. He’s not going anywhere.” The orderly cast a look of disdain at the Joker before leading the way back upstairs.

Whistling, the Joker inched closer to the thick protective glass to make sure they were gone before taking out the pass key. “Not going anywhere far, anyway,” he said to himself, swiping the card on the inside electronic lock. Like a child looking two ways before he crossed the street, the Joker cautiously made sure the coast was clear before giddily making his way down the opposite end of the hall, the corridor leading to the storage areas and old file rooms. Exactly where Harleen Quinzel had her main office that she hadn’t touched since first arriving at Arkham.

Counting down the appropriate number of doors, the Joker opened the fifth on the right to see his Harley waiting for him, sitting on the edge of a desk piled high with boxes like eighty-five percent of the glorified closet.

“You made it,” she marveled. Of course, she didn’t doubt him but it was still amazing to see him walking about of his own will, out of their sessions.

Locking the door behind him, the Joker ignored her patronizing praise. A naked light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling with a chain dangling down. The light was so dull and garish he couldn’t detect it from the outside. They were safe for a little while at least. Leaning against a ceiling high pile of brown boxes the Joker folded his arms and stared at her.

“Turn around.”

Harley did as instructed, unbuttoning her blouse slowly (to his annoyance not pleasure) and turning around to display her back. She hissed in a mixture of pain and arousal as the Joker ran his fingernails over her bare back, his eyes roving hungrily over the final product of his genius. On her left shoulder and her lower right, the heart and diamond respectively, both filled in with bright, fresh blood red. On her right shoulder and lower left, the spade and club, their centers pitch as night. In the center of her now perfect back, the silhouette of the jester devil, bent in laughter at his misdeeds.

“You really have outdone yourself these past few weeks, Harley,” the Joker said. “And we’re almost at the goal line...but you’re not a rabbit and I am not a kangaroo so let us not jump ahead of ourselves.” He took the list from the desk where she had it spread out and examined it. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“2000 mustang.”

A guffaw burst from him. “You will definitely have to trade down.”

“Trade down?” she repeated, putting her blouse back on. Once he got on another subject he rarely went back to the previous.

“They’ll know I’m gone within minutes,” the Joker reminded her. “The last thing we want is a spotlight on the not so subtle getaway car.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

He eyed her. She was biting her lip, a sure sign she wanted to tell him something but did not know how. “What is it?”

“Commissioner Gordon left me another message...”

”Ignore it, we’ll be gone soon.”

“I think he’s going to come down to Arkham to talk to me.”

“Well you will just have to talk to him then, won’t you?”

It was the third voicemail she received from him. That idiot Dr. Bartholomew let it slip that Harley had copies of photos, newspaper clippings and reports on her patient. Gordon had been trying to get in touch with her since to get those items back to help rebuild the files she had set fire to last week. His messages were cheerful but insistent. She could not avoid him for another two weeks.

Watching her pout, the Joker remarked, “You look upset.” He tried to imitate her frown.

“I don’t wanna talk to that stupid Commissioner,” she whined. The more her obsession took hold of her, the more dependent she became on her ‘patient.’ The more he encouraged that dependency, giving her orders, tearing her apart at all corners only to leave her confused with his extreme mood swings the more Harley found herself unable to hold onto her old self, Harleen. That was the point though, right? To shed the fake skin and adapt to the true nature of herself? It was harder than it initially presented.

Some days she would be his confidant, listening to him talk about the purity of random chaos in a world which creates hollow justice or toss around ideas for the next big joke. On other days Harley would be his plaything, a blank sheet for the knife to work his magic or an object to do with as he pleased. She liked this best, along with those days when he needed her. An accomplice. Being needed was her favorite feeling, along with the touch of his hands and the knife. Yet, there were darker days where he seemed to want nothing to do with her and thrived on punishing her for no apparent reason other than just being there. He was cold and merciless. Harley didn’t like the knife on those days but she’d have taken it over his stinging slaps, kicks, pushes and backhands. He had even boxed her ears once, just to try it out.

“Do you know why I hurt you?” he asked in a calm voice, cradling her in his lap after their last particularly violent episode.

“No,” she sniffed, clinging to him desperately.

“Because I have an insatiable appetite for destruction. When I want to go out and completely annihilate something and there is this awful road block in my way...well,” he shook her playfully, licking her shoulder to taste the bruise he had made there. “I just kind of go a little stir crazy. You understand, right, pumpkin?”

Of course she did. She was his Harley. Everything made sense when he explained it.

Harley had sighed contently against his chest. They just needed to leave Arkham. Yes, that was it. Being cooped up in the asylum was driving him mad and making him violent; he needed to be free to roam wherever his chaotic creative muse led him so he could take it out on the people who really deserved his wrath. Only then, Harley had convinced herself, would he stop hurting her.

His eyes glittering in malice and impatience, the Joker towered over her as she cowered with her arms tucked close to her chest, his body less than an inch away from hers, replying testily, “You will talk to him and you will do a brilliant job convincing him you are a bright, capable doctor instead of a sniveling, incompetent whore.” He took a swipe at her cheek with the knife but caught her forearm and wrist as she raised her arms to protect herself.

Wiping the blood with his index finger the Joker roughly took her other arm and wrote in quick, expert motions, scribbling “Whore” on her forearm. Admiring his work, the anger melted from his face. Amused now, he chuckled and went to wipe off more blood from her wound. He painted a bloody smiley face on her cheek and REDRUM on her forehead. Before it congealed, the Joker took the last of her blood onto the tip of his finger, careful not to spill a single drop. Caught between fascination and horror, Harley watched as he proceeded to smear her blood on his lips like he were applying lipstick. When he was finished, he tenderly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and roughly kissed her other cheek, leaving a bloody lip stain behind. When he pulled back he was smiling down at her.

“You’ll be marvelous, Harley girl, I know it.” He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Now I gotta split before someone misses me. Ta.”

Without another word he turned and left, leaving her bloody, confused and head over heels.

 

* * *

 

 “Commissioner Gordon,” Harley said in her best I’m-so-happy-to-see-you voice, standing from behind her desk to greet him, extending her hand politely. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, too...doctor...” he said, taken aback. He had been trying to get this Dr. Quinzel character to call him back for ten days now...making him drive all of the way out to Arkham for another unannounced visit made him feel angry and wasteful. Dr. Bartholomew had only mentioned that Dr. Quinzel was the Joker’s psychiatrist...he had failed to mention she was ridiculously young. The prim look helped ease the blow, her reading glasses, doctor coat and hair neatly twisted in a knot on her head...but Gordon was still shocked. Why would they ever let this poor creature take on the Joker’s case? It was like feeding a lamb to the lions.

“Dr. Quinzel,” she helped him, emphasizing the doctor part. His surprise did not escape her. “I just started my residency.” She gestured for him to have a seat.

“No, thanks, I only have a minute. I was hoping you would be able to let me have copies made of your copied files on the Joker.”

Her smile was wide and sweet as she stared up at him from her seat, her chin delicately resting on primly interlaced fingers. “I’m sorry, Commissioner, there must be some mistake. I don’t have any files on the Joker, aside from my own which I created.”

Flabbergasted, he put his hand on his hip and ran a hand through his gray hair. “What do you mean? Dr. Bartholomew said,”

“I am sorry,” she interrupted, sweetly as ever. “But Dr. Leland is my supervisor and she gave me explicit instructions not to read the file they had obtained for me initially. So naturally I destroyed it.”

“You...what?”

“I destroyed the file so I wouldn’t be tempted to read it. I am sorry that this inconveniences you but I could not have foreseen the unfortunate event regarding your urgent need of them. It is not as if we keep back up files provided by outside resources.” It was a thinly veiled insult, wrapped up in a smile and politeness.

Appalled by the severity of her actions, Gordon stammered, “You destroyed the file...so you wouldn’t be tempted to read it after you were told not to? Why didn’t you just return it to Dr. Leland?”

“It was mine to do with as I saw fit. We destroy confidential information once it is of no longer use to us, I’m sure your department has similar regulations regarding sensitive material that you do not want fallen into the wrong hands.”

He eyed her, thinking she looked too young to be taking such a serious stance so soon in her career. Oh, well. It was not as if he wasn’t a blow hard to others from time to time. She was right; it wasn’t her fault that the MCU was broken into and nobody noticed. He shouldered that blame himself.

“I’m sorry if I pestered you,” he said.

She stood up. “Would you like me to walk you out, Commissioner?”

“No, thank you...I’ve been here enough times in the past month to know my way around now. Thank you for your time, Dr. Quinzel.”

She watched him leave. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Harleen took off her coat, reading glasses and let her hair down. Unlocking her right hand drawer she took out the collection of knives she had recovered from her visit to the MCU. He had told her to practice as much as she could, to incorporate the exquisite knives with her gymnastic skills. Even though he preferred knives he had also ordered her to learn firearms during her free time; it would be necessary he had said. She had to drive two counties over to find a low-key enough place that she was confident could not trace back to her. His to-do list was nearly complete and soon they were one week away.

 

* * *

 

  

There was an impromptu deranged party in the common room when the Joker was permitted to return days later. The schizophrenics, demented and psychotics gathered around him like a long lost father returning home from war. It was the kindly nurse Flo who allowed him back. Having worked in the trauma unit in Metropolis in her twenties she had seen her fair share of horrendous physical atrocities but she had never in her years seen the kind of mutilation as done to the Joker’s face. She did not think it was fair of the senior nurse to have banished him to his solitary corridor. She wasn’t a fancy psychiatrist but Flo firmly felt that the mentally ill should not be punished.

Only Harvey Dent, Jonathan Crane, and the elderly catatonic ignored the Joker’s return.

“Miss you, Mr. Joker.”

“We thought they might’ve stuck you in the basement.”

“I am in the basement,” said the Joker, giving the man a sideways look.

“With the ghosts?”

Joker laughed, “I think I’m the only ghost down there.”

“Look at them,” Crane muttered in disgust to Harvey. “Like sheep flocking around a wolf dressed in wool.” He shook his head in dismay. “He’s not like them.”

“Neither are we,” replied Harvey, his eyes downcast. “We’re more like him than you realize.”

The news was on in the background, nobody paying any attention.

“...and in other news police won’t confirm or deny rumors that a filing cabinet containing files on the notorious Joker was destroyed by an unknown assailant earlier this month. Our informant reports that the alleged cabinet held not only the files but items belonging to the Joker himself. Detectives we spoke to insist that the Joker is securely held at Arkham Asylum and that it is highly unlikely that any of the recent acts of vandalism are related. No comment on any possible suspects. Back to you, Bob.”

“Looks like it’ll be some time before we hear the end of the clown prince of crime, eh, Suzee?”

Jonathan Crane threw his head back and howled with laughter that could rival his Arkham nemesis. The Joker spun around and stared wide eyed at the television.

“The clown prince of crime!” echoed Scarecrow, hoping the Joker would throw a chair at the TV and get permanently banned from the common room.

Joker did look upset, his eyes narrowing and his scars twitching as he sucked on his bottom lip, formulating a reaction. Turning around his expression as if it wasn’t on the verge of maniacal rage a second ago the Joker cried out jovially, “You hear that boys? I’m royalty!”

“Jesus Christ,” groaned Crane as the common room erupted in cheers, the voices of madmen ringing everywhere.

“The media is foolish to be giving him so much airtime,” commented Harvey. “It would have been in their best interest to just forget him and not give him the attention he doesn’t deserve. Constant coverage is only going to make things worse. For everyone.”

“I don’t mean this offensively, Harvey,” said Jonathan as he looked over his shoulder at the Joker, a prince now among the common maniac. “But the Joker’s not exactly a face people easily forget.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Finally! I have found my second calling...I know what I want to do with Gotham for round two and the exact message I want to send.”

The Joker was lying on his back on Harley’s desk, staring at the ceiling with his arms outstretched above him to make gestures for emphasis. He did not know exactly what compelled him to share his thoughts with her now...she would have found out eventually anyway. He choked it up to his usual reason: having his own personal captivated audience. That he did not need to hold a gun to.

“I want to inspire the everyday citizen of Gotham to bare their true colors...I want to encourage them to explore the deeply rooted scars of their past, the skeletons in the closet of their minds...pull them up and exchange them for the life they’re currently living, lives which need to be ripped out of the equation altogether. I want everyone to throw away their facade and pick up...” he drifted off, his waving hands faltering for a moment.

“Pick up...?” Harley gently prompted.

“....and pick up a new mantle.”

Smiling wryly, Harley replied, “Almost sounds like you want everyone to become the Batman, Mister J.”

“That’s IT!” he shouted, leaping to a crouching position, his body quivering in excitement as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his Glasgow grin widened to its maximum effect. “You are a genius, Harley.” He planted a long, deep kiss on her mouth. Embracing him, even if she did not quite understand, Harley took the most to savor the moment. It didn’t last long.

“Gotta brainstorm.” He jumped off the desk and began to pace the office, muttering to himself. Sighing with love and admiration, Harley thought how fortunate she was to be in the presence of a genius at work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They had one more meeting before The Big Day. She was antsy but he was strangely calm, as if anticipating a storm but already fully equipped with supplies. When he went over his mental check list he was so placid he sounded as if they were going camping.

“All of my effects?”

“Clothes and knives, at my apartment.”

“Boomsticks?”

“Guns, all purchased from the contacts you gave me, totally untraceable, check.”

“Chalk?”

“Yeah. You know they sell those big buckets for cheap at toy stores?”

Hopping madly as he painfully griped her shoulders and shook her, he replied giddily, “I haven’t been to a toy store in years! We’ll have to make a stop there sometime.”

“All right,” she replied breathlessly, overwhelmed by his manic moods.

“What about you?” he asked, now swaying from side to side in the swivel chair at her desk. “Cancel your cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Close all of your accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Destroyed all papers?”

“Yes.”

“And by destroy I don’t mean you tore them in half and dumped them in the trash to be sniffed out by some John law later.”

“I know,” she assured him. “I burned them and dumped the ashes into the planter in the courtyard outside.”

Cockeyed, the Joker said, “There’s a courtyard here? How grotesque.”

He was scribbling something down very quickly and ripping the paper from the yellow pad gave it to her.

“What is this?” she said, reading the list of odd assortments.

Gripping the end of the desk he pushed off, propelling the chair to spin several rotations as he replied, “Your shopping list for tonight.”

  

* * *

 

 

Harley walked down the aisles of the grocery store, praying nobody took notice of the items in her cart. It was an array of meat; mostly beef in steaks, ground, ribs and small, cubed pieces. There was some pork thrown in as well but no chicken or fish. The list had no vegetables, no fruit, no canned goods or frozen foods. Just meat and cereal. He even wrote a post script:  ** _no potatoes from a box!_**

As a doctor at Arkham, even an intern or a pretend intern, one does not fraternize with the inmates during mealtimes. She had no clue what sort of dietary habits her man kept. Ever since he gave her the list she had been trying to imagine him doing every day things like...eating. It was too surreal to imagine.

 _I’ll find out all of that mundane stuff tomorrow_ , she thought nervously, turning down the cereal aisle. It was only the act itself which had always been mundane but in truth, Harley couldn’t wait to see Mister J in every day life. Maybe he would eventually want an every day life...when he was finally weary of blowing Gotham half way to Kingdom Come.

 _Does this man like his sugary cereal or what_ , Harley thought. As a child and through her teen years she had been forbidden to eat such products like Cap’n’ Crunch, Lucky Charms and of the like because of the gymnastics. Whatever the commercials said, Wheaties and its sister cereals were not part of the breakfast of champions as Harley was only permitted to eat balanced, nutritional meals. She had tasted sugar coated something or other cereal once in college but felt like she was someone cheating herself...it wasn’t like keeping Kosher, which her family had never done anyway. Harley had just felt some bizarre guilt because she liked it. It was sweet and bad for her and she had loved it.  _Now I’ll be able to have it all of the time_ , she thought happily, taking her shopping cart and running, picking up enough momentum to stand on the bottom bar and let the laws of science whisk her down the rest of the aisle, rejoicing in a vocal explosion of glee.

 

* * *

 

  

There was no insincerity about his quiescent state of mind. The Joker felt he had no reason to needlessly waste energy on his breakout. He lie awake that night, his last night at Arkham, thinking about his creation, his Harley girl. She was still all a-twitter with nerves even after he went over everything with her, calmly reassuring her that everything would turn out his way as it always managed to do. So long as she didn’t fuck it up, of course. It retrospect, he probably should not have added that part. She tensed up and looked like the boy of the wild who had been raised by wolves but was told he must now go and join mankind. What would he do with all of his wolf training and instincts? Would he still be able to howl at the moon and strike fear into his enemies, or would the exposure to humans soften him up?

Unable to console her with words and his own brand of Joker logic, he took out the knife, their knife, and grazed it against her skin, its soothing familiarity calming her instantly. He even coddled her for a while, of course she wanted more than that, but they were thankfully out of time to be together. It wasn’t that she wasn’t tempting but he didn’t need her that damn calm. She’d probably forget the whole blasted thing...not that he was bragging or anything.

Her original usefulness had carried over his expectations and if she pulled off tomorrow without a hitch she would be well worth keeping around after all, especially now that he had figured out his next big joke. Remembering his promise to The Chechen, the Joker went to sleep that night confident he would be honoring his word to give a better class of criminal back to Gotham City.


	3. Joker's Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Born free.

Anticipation was a feeling the Joker thrived on. He didn't have much patience for anything out of his control but when he had the upper hand in all arena's expectation was a thrilling ride. It was a lesson he would have to eventually teach to Harley, who could not sit still during their final session together. She definitely needed to learn a thing or two about appreciation the scintillating art of anticipation.  
  
Perched on her desk, the Joker compulsively flicked a switchblade she had brought him, one of his old trusted sharp friends. It was all he requested for his one night only disappearing act.  
  
"Are you sure that's going to be enough?" Harley asked him worriedly. He stared at her with a dangerous look in his eyes, the one that told her he was debating between killing and laughing.  
  
"Have we met?" he asked, flicking the switchblade up meaningfully.  
  
"I get the point," she replied meekly. A laugh bubbled in his torso and burst out like a balloon popping.  
  
"You get the point. Nice one. Oldie but goodie."  
  
She was too stressed to chuckle along with him. There was no lack of faith for him on her part, just a natural tendency to think the way of Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong will. She had successfully terminated with any membership she had belonged to including credit cards, magazine subscriptions, banks, the gym, internet connection, store savings cards and even her beloved Mustang, a high school graduation present now standing in someone's lot completely stripped of any traces of its former ownership. Once they were onto her hand in everything she was to dump her cell phone, the service already having been due to run out at the end of the month. He demanded all connections to the past to be severed. Happily she complied; Harley was giving it all away to embrace the Joker and the new life he was handing to her like an appetizing dessert. 

* * *

  
  
    Naturally the Joker did not tell Harley why he had chose this exact evening to make his break from Arkham. It didn't concern her and would have ruined the surprise anyway. What the Joker kept to himself was that he had carefully monitored the routines of all of the night guards posted outside his cell. Most of them were heavy set, a few too short, leaving only two juuuuuuust right. One of those juuuuuuuust right men was currently stationed.  
His name was McCormick and he was young, younger than the Joker and possibly younger than Harley. Joker imagined he was a high school drop out taking what odd jobs he could find to support his equally youthful and pretty wife and t heir smattering of small children. He knew the former to be true; the man's wedding ring was always prominently featured on his left forefinger.  
_  
A lover, not a fighter_ , thought the Joker as he studied the man.  _Too bad for him._  
  
    McCormick nervously looked over his shoulder. The maniac was sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, whistling as he stared at McCormick. The guard could feel the glittering malice shooting out from the prisoner's eyes, two pitch orbs that bore to the depths of McCormick's soul.  
  
_Why is staring at me now?_  McCormick thought helplessly, quickly looking away when their vision aligned.   
  
The Joker had a basic nighttime routine of punching the padded walls, shout-singing at the top of his lungs until he winded down enough to end it with his grand finale of collapsing on his bed, rolling with the covers to face the wall and going to sleep without another word. His songs were typically old television show themes, sea shanties and previously sweet songs ripped with new, violently and sexually explicit lyrics. McCormick was used to them by now, even amused by the creativity of some of them.  
    He was even beginning to believe the rumors that the police had been duped and captured the wrong man...surely one of the real Joker's addle-brained henchmen, former patients of Arkham gone awry. The real Joker probably scarred this poor kid up and confused him half to death...he probably thought it was all some sort of great game.  _He's just too young_ , McCormick told himself firmly, the Joker's age reminding McCormick of his big brother, his hero.  
  
    There was no denying that this fellow had issues; that was for sure. However, the weirdest event witnessed by the night guard was on his first night watching this supposed Joker. He had been alternating between raucous hysterics and an occasional guttural noise McCormick pegged for a sob. Upon closer examination McCormick discovered the Joker was doing it all in his sleep as he was curled up with his blanket, his face right up against the wall - the same position he would come to always sleep in. McCormick almost felt bad for the guy...he just wasn't convinced.  
  
Until now.  
  
    That look, the one the Joker currently aimed at McCormick, inspired shivers down the night guard's spine. It was as if the whole year he had been working at Arkham he had been under a spell and now he had the sudden awakening:  _You are working with the criminally insane! Get out of there now, you gimp!  
_  
"Want to hear a couple of jokes?" the Joker asked agreeably, his tone not matching the look in his eyes. McCormick coughed nervously but did not reply. Joker used the obvious aversion to silently remove the pass key and switchblade from his shoe pocket.  
  
"How do you get a sweet, little old lady to say fuck?" prompted the Joker. McCormick pointedly refused to even look. No matter, the Joker went on. "You get another little old lady to yell BINGO!"  
  
McCormick's nose puffed out his laugh into air. Joker sat at the edge of his bed, facing the see through door that came between him and his audience.

"Which of the following don't belong: your wife, eggs, meat, a blow job? Give up? A blow job! You can beat your wife, eggs, and meat but you just can't beat a blow job!"  
  
Though he kept his head away from the man in the cell, McCormick could not help snickering out loud in wicked humor. Joker stood up.  
  
"What did Jesus say when he was up on the cross? Give up? This is one hell of a way to spend my Easter vacation!'"  
  
Unable to help himself, McCormick threw his head back and laughed, his amusement joined in with the Joker's own rippling loud voice as he came up to the side of the glass.  
  
"What do you do with a broken dishwasher?"

"I don't know," McCormick said with a shake of his head.

"Slap the bitch!"  
  
They howled together in mirth once more, two guys sharing jokes McCormick would never have let his wife hear him laugh at. He had almost forgotten what it was like to laugh at the raunchy and inappropriate.  
  
Close to McCormick's ear now, the Joker asked, "What do you call a half naked dead guy nailed to the wall?"  
  
"I don't know, wh-" McCormick froze mid-sentenced. A gleaming switchblade was pressed firmly up against his throat He realized their laughter had been so loud it covered up the soft, nearly silent  _woosh_  noise the doors made when they were opened. The Joker was twirling a pass card in his other hand. McCormick had a gun but was too scared to even remember it.  
  
"Do you give up?" asked the Joker, pausing for McCormick's answer as he seemed almost genuinely curious to hear the younger man's guess. A sickening feeling washing over him, McCormick watched the Joker's grin spread across his face, ready to give the punch line.

"Art."  
  


* * *

  
  
    The nurse commonly dubbed Flo took out her evening snack, an apple and slices of cheddar cheese. Being on duty at night was a mixed blessing. On one hand, her mother worried and gave her a hard time about it. Flo did not like being away from her mother at night as she was growing increasingly unable to take care of herself. On the other hand, it was quiet and Flo was able to get a lot of her paperwork and crosswords done. She had control of the television but that got old very quickly. It was the radio that kept her spirits up, the golden oldies of her parents hey day. She was the only girl in her high school who voted for The Supremes over The Bangles.  
  
No matter; it was just her, The Mamas and the Papas and poor old Mr. Lundy, the catatonic. She would escort him to bed soon enough, during the late night meds distribution. She liked having his company; his presence was calming for some odd reason.  
    Flo was mildly surprised to see Adam McCormick breeze through the common room, especially without acknowledging her like he normally did. It only took her a split-second to realize the horrifying reality.   
  
_That's not him._  
  
Her instinct, which she took as fear, told her to let it be. He clearly did not notice her; she should make an effort to not notice him.

"Wait."  
  
She stood up and came around the nurse's station into the room just as he was a bout to exit. His back was towards her and his hair had been pulled up under the guard's hat. But he stopped and Flo took this as a good sign.  
  
"I know you must be frustrated, being locked up here...but I don't think you should go out there," she continued through her nerves, despite the voice telling her to shut up and wish him happy trails. "They'll hunt you and bring you back but it would be much worse. They might even kill you out there. You're safe here. You have friends...your doctor likes you -" Joker made a soft "heh" sound at this -"I think, no I'm sure, that you can be helped if you would only just stay."  
  
"Help me?" he repeated, turning around and walking over to her with a look of defeat. "Do you really think that I can be helped?"  
  
"Of course," she beamed. He looked so remorseful, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the stolen guard uniform. Flo knew his privileges would be suspended for however he got out but she was confident she could smooth things out for him.  
  
"Do you suppose," he went on, "I can be...saved?"  
  
Did he mean the Jesus kind of being cured of his mental illness? Flo wondered.  
  
"Uh, maybe. Who knows the possibilities? You just have to be willing to let us help you...you can't run away from your problems."  
Joker gave a soundless laugh, his shoulders shaking as his hand clasped the handle of the switchblade in his pocket. "You always did know how to put a smile on my face, Florence."  
  
"My name isn't Florence, it's-"  
  
"Because  _you_  can't run away from your problem, either."  
  


* * *

  
  
    Harley waited, willing her nerves to steady themselves. It was no longer the plan anymore, she trusted his capabilities, but the fact that she had never been in the Narrows at night. On the darkened street with only a single light post flickering above. People passed her and took her for a man, hopefully. A slight man but a man regardless. Her head was concealed in a helmet with a mirrored visor to shield her face and the suit she purchased wasn't as form fitting as she was originally planning for. It worked out in the end.  
Alert to someone walking out the gate, Harley rolled back a little, ready to bolt as she recognized the standard night guard uniform before she saw who was wearing it.  
  
"A Harley on a Harley, how punny," he joked dryly, munching on an apple that was skewered on the switchblade. His eyes looked down at the crimson motorcycle. "You call this trading down?" Obviously there were some details she needed to still learn about.  
  
Harley shrugged, too astonished to speak. This was really happening; they were leaving together. He was completely nonplussed about it as if it had been his plan all along, since the very beginning when he first exploded on the streets of Gotham. He held out the apple with a raised brow. She lifted the visor and took a bite.  
  
"Tempting me with an apple?" she teased. "What about Adam?"  
  
"He couldn't take a joke," he said, flicking the apple down an alley way. It went over an out of shape fence and splattered in a million little pieces. He got behind Harley and took hold of her, wrapping his arms possessively under her breasts. "Looks like it's just you and the snake, Harley girl."  
  
Smiling, Harley flipped down the face guard and sped off, McCormick's hat flying off the Joker's head as his laughter echoed in the night.  
  
  
    They parked the bike two blocks away from Harley's building and walked the rest of the way in silence. Her car was gone, her parking space empty and ready to be questioned when the time was right. As soon as she opened the door to her apartment he stepped ahead of her and yanked off the uniform shirt, discarding it along with the stolen shoes on her living room floor and walking straight through the brick arch to the bedroom. There, on her bed, were his knives and clothes. He gently set the clothes on the floor and then proceeded to examine and re-familiarize himself with his blades, caressing and cooing each and every single one of them. Harley changed from the suit to a long tee shirt, her eyes never leaving him, filled with blind adoration, Harley sighed contently, extraordinarily pleased with herself.  
  
    Angry that his precious weapons had been locked away in a dusty cabinet for almost three months, the Joker held them close to his ear, willing them to share their tale of woe and neglect with him. They were left to be forgotten or worse, used against him in a court of law. It was shameful and he must make it up to them.  
  
    He barked at Harley to stop staring at him and get him something to eat. She brought him back a big bowl of Lucky Charms and continued to watch him from a distance. He did not like being a fish bowl for her amusement but was too preoccupied to do anything to her at this moment. Later. When she really pushed his buttons, which he knew she would. For now he was content to sit cross legged on the edge of her bed and stare into space, agonizing over how to compensate for lost time between him and his knives.  
  
    The moment he finished his sugary meal he got up and handed the bowl to Harley, brushing passed her and angrily went to the bathroom. After leaving the bowl unceremoniously in the kitchen sink Harley stood at the bathroom door, curious as to what he was doing. His hands griped the sides of the porcelain sink as he was stared at his reflection in the mirror with such malice Harley almost worried he did not recognize his own face.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked in a whisper, afraid he would turn that hate on her.  
  
"Have I...been like  _this_...for three months?" his voice shook with rage and soon his whole body was trembling. Living without mirrors he had forgotten what he looked like without his face paint; allowed himself be seen without the enhancement of his exaggerated mask. No wonder everyone kept harping on him about his age...they weren't seeing the Joker, they were seeing the insane human behind him. They were lax with him in Arkham because he wasn't the frightening god of chaos but a young, scarred lunatic with some bad habits. They hadn't feared him; they pitied him!  
  
What was worse, he thought with a brief gaze at Harley in the mirror, is that she was following his every word, craving every ounce of attention he paid her but had no real clue as to his true nature. If she freaked on him...he was resolved to kill her...though it would be like throwing a wrench into the gears of his plan.  
  
Harley screamed and jumped back as he let out a ferocious growl and punched the mirror, giving it a spider web crack in the upper right hand corner.  
  
"What's wrong?" she cried, holding onto the doorframe.  
  
Ignoring her and the blood on his knuckles, the Joker stormed passed her and went to her closet, sifting through her clothes, trying to find something in particular. Worried, Harley walked over to her closet even as he was tossing her belongings around.  
  
"Whatcha looking for?"

"You just stay put and wait for your phone call."

"Phone call?" He did not elaborate. "And what do you mean stay put?"  
  
He found what he was looking for; an oversized t-shirt, too baggy for the petit Harley but just right for him. It was bright orange with a black, slightly faded Jack-o-Lantern face in the center. It clashed horribly with the navy blue guard pants.

"My face paint?" he demanded and she pointed to the night stand where her gift dagger sat. Ripping the drawer open he found exactly what he was looking for; she had bought him everything he asked for. Too angry to be sentimental enough for a word of gratitude, the Joker went back into the bathroom and slammed the door in her face.  
  
Harley's heart was racing; what the hell was all of that about? She crept onto her bed and waited, watching the door to the bathroom. When he emerged he was completely made up, a grinning death mask in all of his Joker glory. The sheer intensity of its effect initially made Harley want to faint but knowing he would beat her into oblivion for it kept her conscious. Swaying, she held herself upright, forcing herself to look at him as she always did.  
  
She knew he wore the face paint, of course, but the effect...the grimy, greasy way the paint clung to his skin, aging him by ten years, the black circles swallowing his brown eyes to make his face looked gouged out. The smile...it was garish red, enhancing every nick, bump, curve, and swollen part of his scars. It made them look freshly cut and only embellished the shoddy stitch job that had been done immediately after he received them.  
  
_This is him,_  Harl, she told herself. The thought only gave her the strength she needed to steady herself and rise up on her knees to put her arms around him and incline her head to his chest.  _Yes. Still my Mister J.  
_  
Acknowledging her devotion, he lightly touched her elbow then gently untangled himself from her.  
  
"I will be back," he stated lowly, scooping up his knives expertly with one swoop of his hand. Tucking them into various pockets and crevices of his outfit, he headed for the front door. Crushed and perplexed, Harley darted after him.  
  
"Wait, where are you going? When will you be back? Don't you think it's too soo-"  
  
He backhanded her hard, harder than he ever had before. Keeping her hand against the wall for balance, Harley cowered at his feet, clutching her stinging cheek, her bloody nose going unnoticed.   
  
_"I will be back,"_  he repeated before stepping out into the hall, slamming the door behind him.  
  


* * *

  
  
   Television was no help. She kept worrying that a breaking news story would interrupt every program and go live from somewhere in downtown Gotham where the Joker was once again captured...or worse, shot. Turning off the TV, Harley turned on the radio instead and lay on top of the covers of her bed, the lights off as they were giving her a headache. She was just beginning to relax when she heard a faint scratching on the front door. Leaping up she bounded over to the front door and without even checking the peep hole whipped open the door.  
He was back and he was covered from hair to shoes in blood. His chest was heaving and he was smiling.  
  
"They're not mad at me," he said giddily to her as she guided him inside, locking the door after him. "They forgave me and worked their tricks...like we were never separated."  
It took her a minute to realize he was talking about his knives, one which was still tightly clenched in his hand.  
  
"Good," she breathed, unable to find a more appropriate response to the situation. She wanted to pat him down and make sure that none of the blood belonged to him. He did not give her the chance. Throwing his weight at her, he crushed his body against hers, hungrily kissing her as if he meant to devour her. The blood on his clothes was wet and cold, sticking to her skin and night shirt. He had her firmly between both hands, his sharp nails digging into her skin. She felt his face paint smeared onto her face, thickly clogging her pores, making her greasy. He was pushing her authoritatively towards the bedroom and when her knees hit the bed the Joker shoved her down and crawled to kneel on top, only pausing to discard the bloody Jack-O-Lantern shirt. The blood had soaked through the fabric and stained his skin.  
  
"Wait," she breathed hotly, her fingertips gingerly pressed against his chest. "Don't forget to put away your knives."  
  
"Oh, no," he said, masterfully flipping the knife he held. "They all need to be formally introduced to you."  
  
With a satisfying ripping noise the Joker sliced off Harley's tee, directly down the middle so that the blade went between her breasts. He pulled her arms up out of the sleeves and pinned her by the wrists using only one of his hands. Stretching out over her he noted positively the way her body quivered and radiated heat.  
  
"Oh?" he asked in a mock innocent voice. "You don't care that I'm getting you all messed up with blood and paint?"  
  
In response she lifted her neck off the bed and languidly licked his face, tasting the blood tinged paint. For a brief second Harley saw his eyes grow heavy and his mouth slightly agape as he watched her slowly retract her tongue and moan with desire upon tasting the mix. She licked him once more but before she could pull her tongue back he captured it and firmly held on with his teeth, shoving his own tongue as far down in her mouth as he could. Twisting her body to express her further desire and practically shouting against his mouth, Harley was utterly frustrated to have no freedom with her arms. He always kept them away, refusing her any ounce of control over either of them.   
  
Without warning she felt his free hand clamp down between her legs, feeling the sticky puddle that gathered there and instantly she was desperately bucking her hips. This only pissed him off as he rose up and left her completely alone, save for the crushing hand that continued to hold her wrists together.  
  
"This will not do at all," the Joker said to her like she was late to class. Rummaging through his pockets he drew out all of the knives and laid them down close to her head; not a clear shot of them but enough to know they were there to be feared. "You simply have to learn some self-control and restraint." He picked up the bloodied knife and held it so close she saw double. "I'm going to let you go now but if you move even one bit you're not going to be a happy little girl, do you understand me?"  
  
She nodded, too scared to answer. Watching her closely he unclasped his hand and took the shredded tee shirt from beneath her and ripped it into strips of fabric. He then trussed her up, tying her wrists together and then her ankles.  
  
"You're lucky I forgot to grab those handcuffs off of our fallen friend," he muttered, tightening the knot painfully so if she moved the fabric would rub painfully against her skin. His hands on his hips as he knelt on top of her the Joker looked at his handiwork. "I'm missing something...what is it...oh, yes." He took two strips of fabric, placed on top of the other and gagged his blonde accomplice. "You're a pal, Harley, but sometimes your voice just makes me want to stab you...in a way that would not be fun for anyone but me."  
Pleased with his makeshift bounds and gags he moved on to his collection.   
  
"Now, as I said earlier: I need to introduce you to my friends, if you will. This is Mr. Serrated. He's got these sharp, pointy teeth, see?" He held it up in the dim light provided by a street post outside and turned it around in his fingertips for Harley to view. "He's great for gutting and really nasty business, when you don't mind a little sawing involved." With an amused smile he pretended the knife was a saw and made little sawing sound effects, mimicking the motions across Harley's belly. Her muscles twitched but he did not take notice. "Not fun for anyone except of course me." Joker tossed the serrated knife aside and picked up the switchblade.  
  
"You already know old switchy here, of course. He's a classic." Joker made the blade disappear and reappear four times in rapid succession. On the last outing he traced the blade softly against Harley's ribs. "I've already given him enough exercise for one night, though. The others are quite jealous." He closed it and set it next to the serrated knife. "This is a pocket knife..." Furrowing his brow he tried to flick it open with his wrist but it only made it half way. "What the-? Why the hell do I even have this? OK, forget about him...he's fired." Joker tossed the pocket knife in the corner of her bedroom. His smile broadened as he picked up a short knife with a T shaped handle. Harley felt her breath quicken as he held it up and brought it down to her cheek, giving the softest tug of her skin.  
  
"This is a fist knife...I have yet to name him. The name Fisty is just a little too perverse, even for me. Don't you think?" He ran it gently across her other cheek, drawing the smallest amount of blood. Harley closed her eyes and shuddered. When she opened them a new weapon was in his hand. "This is a butterfly knife." He demonstrated the folding bit that concealed the knife within the grooves of its handles. Joker began to perform flipping motions, manipulating the butterfly knife to do tricks. "This can be hours of fun once you get the hang of it." Deliberately flipping the knife above her prone body, the Joker took a lightening fast swipe at her pelvis region, causing her to moan and stare heavily at him, imploringly. "Just one more, my impatient little strumpet." With a rapid wrist movement he closed the butterfly knife and tossed it next to the others.  
  
    Sighing dramatically the Joker reached over her and picked up his last piece. It wasn't big but it knocked all of the breath out of Harley as soon as it came into focus. He wouldn't cut her with that, oh god please don't let him. It was a blade that appeared with the push of a button in its handle, a long, narrow cut out of the center, flat on one side, a convex curve on the other and, worse of all, it had  _teeth_  on its bottom edges.  
  
"This is a cupid out the front knife. I know I shouldn't play favorites but I just can't help myself," he grinned widely with a sickening look of enthrallment. "Why are your eyes rolling back like that? Does this make you nervous?" Holding the cupid knife close to her face his mockingly innocent smile turned to a twisted smirk.  
  
_Just breathe, Harley,_  she told herself.  _Steady your breath, that's it...don't let him see you weakening. You're going to be privy to a lot of handiwork by this man and that is just one of his tools of his trade. Hell, you might even get a few knives of your own to go to town with._ The thought of them together, slicing up foes left and right, began to arouse her. She visibly relaxed, her eyelids growing heavy with renewed longing. Watching the change in her attitude and body language, the Joker was beyond amused.  
  
"And they say I'm the twisted one," he commented, lying down on his side next to her with his head propped up on one arm. Swirling the blood from her facial cuts with his fingertips, he gave her bright red circular blush marks. "Now you're all painted up to go out on the streets and make some money for Daddy." He giggled manically at his joke but the image brought other thoughts to Harley's mind as she flushed and moaned against her bindings. "Sorry, I can't make out what you're saying there just now." He untied the gag but before she could gather her thoughts he transferred the blood stained fabric strips around her eyes, sealing off her vision.  
  
    "What-"  
  
"Shh, you still have to be quiet," he said in a low voice, reaching across her to exchange the OTF for the knife especially reserved for playing with his Harley and held it brushed the flat side across her naked body. She had a sudden heightened awareness now, her senses no longer able to rely on just her eyes to know that he was watching her intently or where the blade was going to next. After feeling its cool caresses against her cheek she felt it taunt under the restraints around her wrists. "No funny business now or else I'm gonna to stick you like a pig and give you something to  _really_  squeal about."  
  
   Freeing her hands, Harley brought them down to her chest to rub the circulation back into them, careful not to touch him or wiggle too much. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he did not stop her as she tentatively raised her hands and lightly grazed his matted hair with gentle strokes. She was surprised that he responded favorably, bending down to nip and suck at her neck. It was the most tender he had ever been.  
  
_There has to be a fucking catch.  
_  
   One hand of his delicately enfolded one of hers and slowly guided it down his body, the first time she had ever been able to touch him like this. Her breath quickening with excitement, Harley had to catch herself before she did the unthinkable. He rested her hand on the waistband of his pants and in a deep, dark voice whispered to her to give him his belt. She knew what he meant to do now and he was tempting her to disobey, knowing how badly she liked to touch him and how much he loathed it.  _Just obey him,_  she told herself. Her new mantra.  
   Unbuckling the belt deftly and in record time despite her blindness she retrieved the belt, bringing it up between their bodies. He took hold of it, about to praise her when defiantly she ran the palms of her hands down his sides and grazed her fingernails at his pelvis below the waistband. Too stunned to react at her audacious disobedience he laid there, slack jawed in rage. Running her nails around his hips, trying to raise hers up from the mattress, it wasn't until her hands went to the fly of the pants that the first blow of the belt buckle smacked across her mouth.   
  
   Silently he seethed, the brown leather belt wrapped multiple times around his hand, leaving four inches of belt and the buckle to be dealt with. The side of her mouth was cut but other than her pitiful moans of frustration she did not make a noise. Her head was facing away from him and he saw her unscathed side stretch into a smile. Chest heaving, Harley tried to feel for the knife in his other hand but only received another blow, this time across her breasts. Moaning loudly she tried to part her legs but could not stretch the restraints. A few breathless laughs escaped her lips and she straightened her upper body out, lying perfectly on her back and began to stroke her own breasts.  
  
Impassive but vaguely impressed, the Joker watched her massage her heavy breasts, pinching her hardened nipples and sigh approvingly along. Folding the belt in half he whipped her with the leather part, first across the belly then across her wet, swollen crotch. Twisting her hips Harley couldn't take not being touched anymore and abandoned her left breast to rub herself.  
    Harley didn't care if she had to get off on her own, as long as he continued to watch, and blindfold or no she could feel his scrutinizing stare as heavily as she would feel his body on top of hers. He was watching and she knew he enjoyed what he was seeing. What she did not expect was to feel his hand join hers, pushing her deeper inside herself, his fingers going passed hers to tug mercilessly on her clit.  
  
    Tossing her head back with a scream through grit teeth, she tried to remove her hand to allow him to finish her off but he would not allow it.  
  
"Oh, no," he hissed, his lips pressed on her ear. "You don't need me at all, do you?" He said this with meaningful long and hard strokes, her engorged clit between two of his fingers, the others stretching her wide. "Do you?"  
  
"Yes, yes I do."  
  
"Are you sure? Hmm?"  
  
She scratched her nails down his chest, arching her back above the bed, crying out, "Yes!"  
  
It was good enough for him, who was grateful she could not see him physically agitated from her deliberate willfulness. She felt him remove both of their hands from her dripping sex and lift her legs up, her bound ankles behind his neck as he pried her thighs as far away as the restraints permitted and slammed into her.  
  
   Twisting the sheets in her hands, Harley was both infuriated and infatuated with the blindfold. She wanted to watch him fuck her but realized that it had been his plan along; to grant her permission to finally touch in exchange for being able to see what she touched. However, her sight depravation only excited her further and when he lowered his body directly atop hers, quickening his brutal thrusts, she flung out her arm and felt the handle of the knife. Raising it high and feeling his sweaty back with her other hand she slowly brought it down, its point making contact with his skin the same moment he climaxed into her, holding her hip steady with one hand and with the other caught and snapped back her wrist back so that the dagger fell from her grasp.  
  
"Not quite, my pet," he breathed hotly against her face, teasing her with the knife. "You have other tasks to complete before you'll ever be able to turn this on me."  
  


* * *

  
  Later, they sat in the slipper bathtub. The bath water soon took on a sickly tint as the blood, sweat, paint and semen washed off their bodies. Settled between her legs, he refused to lean back against her because the closeness he had displayed earlier but he permitted her to wash the blood from his earlier murder out of his hair. She was pleased to discover that none of the blood tracked in was his. Scrubbing his scalp as she hummed an upbeat tune, her blonde hair in pig tails to keep it from getting wet, Harley was vastly contented. The very opposite of expression lay across the Joker's face, his back hunched forward, head to the side resting on his knees with a seething look she had just come to accept as typical. What remained of his face paint she did not even ask about, knowing now how attached he was to it. If he wanted to wash it off he'll do it himself.  
  
"What's the matter?" she asked in that gratingly cheerful voice.  
  
"It's been five hours," he grumbled, "where are the sirens? The phone calls? The helicopters and the Batman? Do people not care enough about you to warn you that your lunatic patient has escaped?"  
  
Harley felt a stab of pain at his words. He would laugh in her face if she told him that yes, it was true, no one cared but him...if that. Instead she stopped scrubbing his scalp and leaned against him, depressed.  
  
He had touched a nerve, he realized and this brought a smile to his face. Hooking his arms around either of her legs he flipped her backwards so that she smacked the back of her head against the rim of the bathtub as he dunked her under. Coming up for breath, Harley was amazed to see him smiles all around, laughing and pointing at her from the other side of the bathtub. Pigtails soaked in blood stained water, Harley knocked her fist in the water, meaning to splash him but he was too quick and the water landed with a satisfying splat across the tiled floor.  
  
"Splash me, will you my little whore?" he cackled and grabbed her, holding her tightly against his body as he deliberately wiped his melting face paint across the side of her face and hair. The proximity of their bodies gave Harley a heated sensation throughout her body, despite being sore from earlier. She rubbed her body meaningfully against his but he merely laughed at her and twisted her around so that her back was against him instead.  
   
Trailing his fingers almost lovingly across the scarification tattoos he was filled with renewed ego knowing she was becoming increasingly dependent on him. Harley whimpered like a puppy in heat every time he touched her brandings. Savagely he wrapped his other muscular arm around her neck and pulling her back so that her ear was brushing against his lips he hissed, "You really just can't get enough, can you?"  
  
"Never."  
  
Quick as a flash he grabbed the shower head and plunged it under water and inside of her. Jutting her hips to welcome the intrusion every time her body jerked his chokehold became tighter until she was seeing spots. There was no method to his work, just to fist the shower head as far up as it would go inside. Parting her legs wide, the water spilling over the sides of the tub even as her hands tightened on slippery porcelain, she ripped scream after scream out of her throat until she came again. Her body going slack in his arms, he released the shower head and cuddled her against his chest possessively. Kissing her roughly atop her head, he gave a sadistic little twitter, "Now why didn't I ask Santa for my very own Harley-girl  _years_  ago?"

 

* * *

  
  
    Jonathan Crane was not a sleeper. In the past his greatest thoughts always came to him in the dead of night when all was silent and the rest of Gotham slept peacefully in their sleep. Dreaming, locked in the perfect world for a genius like Jonathan Crane to peek into and pluck out the subtle symbols and use them to torment the human soul with.  
Old habits die hard anyway and Crane still found himself awake and alert in the still hours of night, despite now being on the other side of the glass at Arkham. He wasn't encouraged to sleep during the day; a regular sleep cycle was part of the therapy process. He was the asshole who thought up that rule, of course, back when he ran the show. Just so he had a perfect set of hours to harvest his guinea pigs. Now it took him a lot of pacing and wandering around to get his mind to calm down.  
  
"Any luck, Mr. Crane?" asked the guard, a nice man Crane had grown to respect.  
  
"Unfortunately no," answered Jonathan with a frustrated sigh.  
  
"All right, let me just take a quick check down the hall and make sure everything is cool. Then we can take a walk, try and see if that brain of yours will quiet down some."  
  
"Thank you," replied Crane, genuinely grateful. After confirming everyone else in his wing, the guard let Crane out and together they walked out of the holdings and into the main halls of Arkham so as not to disturb anyone. Crane let his legs take him wherever, trying to sort out his thoughts calmly. He was a few paces ahead of the guard without meaning to be and suddenly found himself in the common room. His brain instantly shut the fuck up.  
  
Splayed out on the couch was the kindly nurse Crane had hired, the last person who achieved employment under his rule, her throat and mouth sliced in a friendly upward fashion. Her blood oozed down her white smock and pants. Mr. Lundy, the catatonic, passively sat at the end of the couch in a puddle of his own filth.  
  
_**"GODDAMNIT!"  
**_  
Enraged, Crane picked up one of the chairs and used it to smash and knock over the rest of the furniture, spilling game pieces every which way. The guard ran in, ready to tackle Crane but froze to the spot.  
  
"Holy mother of god..."  
Continuing his rampage of destruction, Crane up heaved a table where a deck of unsheathed cards sat and now fluttered angrily about him. Catching sight of the card of the hour, Crane snatched it from the air and began to rip it into little shreds.   
  
_"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, you mother fucker! You piece of shit; die, die, die!"_  
  
  
   Harvey Dent woke up, hearing commotion from elsewhere in the institution. Something was amiss about his cell. Sitting up the best he could with the restraints on his wrists (he was still considered on suicide watch) Harvey's eye grew accustomed to the dim light as he saw something on his cell door. Words...in blood that had dripped down the glass. He read it out loud.  
  
_"Come play with us, Two-Face!"_  
  


* * *

  
  
    Harley's bed was positioned in the center of her bedroom so that only the head met with a wall. There were no corners for him to turn his face into so he made due with Harley, his face buried at the back of her neck. It made her slumber easier and heavier, having him so close. Her mind was wrapped in a blanket of obsession, forming no complete thoughts but a jumble of passionate mania as she slept.  
  
Before the night was completely out, the phone jarred her awake, ripping her from sleep like a band aid pulled from a wound not yet healed. She could feel the Joker waken, tightening his grip on her torso for a moment then releasing her.  
  
"Uh-oh," he said, his voice muffled by the blanket over his head. "Methinks something must be wrong. You better answer that."  
  
Taking one deep breath, Harley pulled herself together and picked up the phone. "Hello?"  
  
"Dr. Quinzel?"  
  
Harley almost forgot that was her, biting her tongue just before she was about to tell her caller they had the wrong number. "Yes."  
  
"I'm sorry to call you so late but we are having a crisis right now."  
  
"Oh?" she asked, yawning.  
  
"The Joker has escaped from Arkham."   
  
"What?" she cried, looking at the Joker for approval of her voice. She could not see him in the darkness but she could feel his approving smile.  
  
"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"  
  
"No, I haven't the slightest clue."  
  
"Well, I don't want to panic you..." he lowered his voice. "But the police here seem to believe he might come after you. I'm sorry to whisper but they're still here taking reports and I'm unfamiliar with their protocol when alerting people of something of this nature. So I guess you could call this a friendly warning."  
  
"Thank you...I don't know what to say."  
  
She heard someone calling to the doctor in the background and the phone being wrenched from his grasp. "Dr. Quinzel? This is Commissioner Gordon."  
  
Stifling a yawn as she felt the Joker pull her down to rest against his chest, an arm wrapped around her shoulder, Harley replied, "Is it true?"  
  
"I'm afraid so. Listen, as his psychiatrist you would have a better inkling to where he might have gone...or if he has gone after someone in particular."  
  
"Do you mean me?" asked Harley with a little fear in her voice. Joker ran his fingers lazily through her hair.  
  
"I don't want to you to panic but please keep your doors and windows locked and if you have any problems I want you to contact this number."  
  
"Let me grab a pencil and paper." Harley put down the phone and nuzzled against her madman's collarbone, nipping at the hollow before returning to the phone. "All right." Putting the phone back down as Gordon recited a number, Harley's lips found their way up the Joker's neck, onto his jaw and finished to suck on his bottom lip. He guided her back to the phone. "Got it."  
  
"We'll send some police officers over later in the morning. Until they get there please do not attempt to leave your home."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you so much. Goodnight."  
  
She hung up and dropped the phone onto the floor. Wrapping her arms around the Joker's neck and rolling with him on the bed they shared their first uproariously sadistic laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Apologies to any parties who were offended by the jokes the Joker told to the guard in the beginning. Some jokes obtained from morbidjokes.com and liberator.net
> 
> \- Just for future reference so it's not a complete shock I won't be keeping the original Harley Quinn outfit 100%. Joker's outfit in TDK was modernized a bit, like A Clockwork Orange/Johnny Rotten Joker. So expect an equal Harley Quinn alternative here. Nothing over the top, nothing Hot Topic-ish, just a slightly darker look.
> 
> \- The most interesting aspect of the Nolanverse Joker is that he has the ability to wash away his face paint. I read in an interview that no matter what his back story it was the scars that pushed him into his final madness. I recognize that his naked face must be a contributing source to his insanity - as in, unless he is in complete control over the situation, he would typically freak out. He only acknowledges himself as the Joker and all that entails and I think he shuns anything that would remind him of any other life he had previous to being the Joker.
> 
> \- On that note, I think the movie conveys a lot of the actual psychosis that the Joker has - as in borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, etc. mixed with an intelligent criminal mind. It is an interesting bag of mixed nuts the Joker's got going on in his head and I am trying to keep the balance here. With probably a little more on the nutty side just because he was a far more symbolic character in the movie and wasn't meant to be explored on a mundane basis.
> 
> \- This is where a lot of my own guesswork has to come in because having Harley Quinn introduced so early in the Joker's own criminal career is a new concept. She came in five decades after his first appearance in 1940 and their age difference is also noted. Throwing her into the Nolanverse gives her character a lot of new mythos because though the Joker is peerless in his crimes and psychosis, she is growing right beside him instead of needing to catch up - which of course she finally does years into the relationship.


	4. Four of Spades: Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lifting of oppression; the inner power of the individual stands unchained.

Harley was vaguely aware that the Joker was getting up and dressed. She closed her eyes, still incredibly sleepy and felt the mattress sink as the Joker stood on top of the bed, hopped over her and went into the bathroom, partially closing the door. That's when she finally heard the insistent pounding on her apartment door.  
Getting up quickly she rummaged through her closet for her black silky robe and quickly put it on, covering up the cuts and bruises. She caught her reflection on the mirror behind her closet door and frowned at the sight of the cut on the side of her mouth from the belt buckle. She would just have to wing it. Joker hissed at her through the bathroom door, motioning his head towards the living room. Harley left her image and went to answer, tying her hair up in a haphazard ponytail.  
  
Her apartment was small and the brick walls did nothing to help this as she did not have a bedroom door, merely curtains, and the hallway was laughable as anyone could see her bedroom partially from one side of the living room.  
  
"Who is it?" she asked cautiously.  
  
"Detective Stephens and Officer Berg. Commissioner Gordon said he would send us."  
  
She was about to unlock her door when she noticed the uniform top from the guard the Joker had killed last night, as well as the shoes. She quickly threw them back into her room and made sure the drapes were closed as well as they could be before letting the police into her apartment. Stephens was middle-aged and stoic but Berg was a jittery, nervous young fellow who looked like he could use a serious vacation.  
  
"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to her cheap IKEA red two seater couch and matching chair. The men sat awkwardly on the couch, finding it petit and girly. "Please tell me what happened."  
  
"We're not sure on the details," admitted Stephens, eyeing the nasty cut beside her mouth but letting it go for now. He could only deal with one crisis at a time. "There was absolutely no indication how he escaped. The cell was perfectly intact, no damage. It was almost as if the guard had let him out."  
  
"Moron," huffed Berg under his breath.  
  
"Hey," barked Stephens. "Don't speak ill of the dead."  
  
"He killed the guard?" asked Harleen, hoping her voice came out surprised rather than her actual feeling of exhilaration.  
  
"Yeah," answered Stephens. "Then took his uniform."  
  
"Officer," said Harleen reproachfully, "You need to be more detailed. I need to know everything that happened so I can assess my patient better."  
__  
You sick little minx, thought the Joker from his position on the bathroom floor, his ear leaning towards the living room. _You just want to get off hearing about my little escapades._  
  
"All right," said Stephens, clearly uncomfortable sharing the gory details with a lady. "He stabbed the fella and got his hands all up in the guy's blood and made these...godawful handprints all over the empty cells. He then somehow got down to poor Harvey Dent's cell and wrote on his cell door. Damnedest thing, since he must've wrote it backwards so Dent would specifically be able to read it."  
__  
That's my Mister J, Harley inwardly sighed. _He's such a genius._  
  
"We don't know what exactly happened next because the only witness is a vegetable but the Joker somehow ended up in the rec room and killed one of the nurses." He winced. "Sliced her neck and her mouth. It was...disgusting."  
  
Berg wiped the sweat from his brow. "Then he left, we guess."  
  
"You guess?"  
  
"Well, he did," said Berg quickly. "Must have just walked out the front gate, anyone would have thought he was a guard since he took the clothes."  
  
"Have there been any leads?"  
  
"No," answered Stephens. "No sign of him anywhere, no calling card or other sick ass clue he typically leaves. We were hoping you might have a clue or two, actually. Has he said anything...told you anything in your sessions that might help us discover his whereabouts?"  
  
"Well, gentlemen, as you know, due to legal issues I can't very well disclose everything that transpired between my patient and I,"  
__  
Especially all of those times I fucked you in your office, thought the Joker wistfully.  
  
"But I can assure you with full confidence that he never once spoke about escaping or alluded to any sort of ulterior agenda. When he bothered to talk it was always about the crimes he had already committed, which I am sure you have extensive,  _personal_  knowledge about already."  
__  
Zing, the Joker mentally laughed.  
  
"That we do, Dr. Quinzel," replied Stephens with a bitter smile. "Commish just wanted us to come down and question you. Well, firstly. Secondly they're all a bit worried down there at Arkham that you might be his next target."  
  
"Is there a legitimate cause to this belief?" asked Harleen, doing her best to look fearful instead of turned on by the thought.  
  
"None other than you being his doctor. He's a whack job without reason."  
  
Harley narrowed her eyes darkly. "Please refrain from using such coarse terminology, officer."  
  
Stephens was taken aback by her offense at the word whack job.  _What the hell? Can't these damn shrinks see a psychopathic bastard when they meet one? Isn't that what they get paid for?_  
  
"Sorry, doctor, but the clown is serious business. Gordon doesn't want to take any chances risking your safety. Most of our resources are going on the hunt but we're puttin' two cops on detail here, one at the entrance of your building and another in the hall here. If anything happens let him know. And whatever you do, let him handle all visitors. Candy grams, newspaper boys, hell even friends and family, just let them go through him. Don't let anyone in that you don't already know."  
  
"Just how am I supposed to go into work?" asked Harleen.  
  
"You're not. Sorry." He stood up, followed by Berg. "And if you need anything just let the cop know. We'll do the best we can."  
  
"This is all so overwhelming," she said with a heavy sigh, seeing them to the door. "I don't know if you are aware of this or not, but I was out of town during the time the Joker committed most of his crimes...and even listening to him talk about them cannot really put it into perspective what really happened."  
  
"If you want to talk about perspective go cruise down the big pile of rubble where Gotham General used to stand," said Stephens darkly. "Let's hope it's nothing like three months ago." After a pause, he continued. "We'll be sending Officer Daniels up in a minute; he's doing a sweep of the area around your building with Officer Mullens. Another two officers will relieve them around eight o'clock for the night shift." Berg went out first as Stephens had an afterthought. "By the way, we're trying to keep the media circus out of it so your discretion is real appreciated, Dr. Quinzel."  
  
"That's not a problem at all. Thank you detective, officer. I feel safer already."  
  
She closed the door behind them and breathed a sigh of relief. She shook her arms, ridding herself of Harleen and taking on Harley once more. It was becoming easier to do now, living in such close quarters with her Mister J now. She wished they did not have to deal with the outside world but of course that was not in the cards.  
Finding him sitting up on the bed in his purple and black pinstripe pants, Harley shed her robe and crawled up to him and crouched lowly on all fours, hoping he would welcome her into his arms. Patting her on the head instead he was surprisingly pensive when he spoke.  
  
"You go back to sleep, Harley-girl. I've got some things to do by myself and I need you to be fresh as a daisy for tonight."  
  
"What's tonight?" she asked as she shimmied under the sheets, grateful he told her to go back to sleep. They hadn't had more than three hours. He did not answer her, merely grinned and scratched the top of her head.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jonathan Crane was secured in a straightjacket, lying on his back on the floor in a corner of the common room. He had been calm for quite some time now but no one could bother with him at the moment. He didn't mind; the restraints gave him the focus he needed to think deep and clearly about the events that transpired and what he was going to do about them. He had two conflicting voices, the raging lunatic and the sinister genius.  
  
The raging lunatic's ranted, _Kill the Joker. Kill the Joker. Kill him good and dead. Dead 'til he's nothing but a bloody pulp of green hair and grease paint._  
  
But Crane was trying to do his best to ignore this voice; it was not dignified. There was no elegance and meaning behind just simply killing the Joker. If and when he was captured.  _No,_  the smooth madman in him said.  _The Joker's demise must be something perfectly crafted and achieved as a battle between the minds._ And Jonathan Crane knew no greater mind than his own.  
  
"Excuse me," he said politely, sitting up. "Can I speak with you, Commissioner Gordon?"  
  
Gordon was talking with Dr. Leland, who had been crying ever since she arrived at Arkham that morning. The Commissioner looked over his shoulder disdainfully at Crane but Crane ignored it, kept his dazzling, cocky smile.  
  
"Got something to add, Mr. Crane?" asked Gordon as he came over to the madman. "Other than another broken chair?"  
  
"Yes, I do apologize for that," said Crane. "It was not my best moment but you understand I was in shock." Unconvinced so Crane went on. "Anyway, I think it would be pertinent to your case to know certain events leading up to the Joker's escape."  
  
"Events?"  
  
"More like transgressions, really. He would say little things here and there, to Harvey Dent and me but mostly to me."  
  
"Why didn't you report them?"  
  
"Every lunatic has illusions of escaping, Commissioner! Even I am guilty of dreaming of the greener pasture on the other side of the fence, so to speak. How was I to know he was serious?"  
  
Gordon couldn't blame Jonathan Crane for this assumption. The Joker liked listening to himself and dazzling people with his twisted tongue. Unless he had that messed up make up and a detonator in his hand, why would any one had taken him seriously?  
  
"So what things do you recall him saying?"  
  
"Oh, that he planned to escape...I pressed for details but naturally he did not have any, or so I assumed since I merely thought he was being petulant. Then sometime last week he said the oddest thing...he said that he had a pass key in his possession." Crane wasn't about to admit that he had actually seen the pass key, of course, as it would just incriminate him.  
  
"A pass key?" repeated Gordon, his eyes bulging from behind his glasses. "Yes, that could explain how he got out of his cell. But how?"  
  
"Probably stole it from someone. Maybe the guard McCormick."  
  
"Hmm..." Gordon felt his breast pocket for pen and paper but did not find any. Distractedly, he began to leave. "Thank you, uh, Mr. Crane."  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Gordon turned around.  
  
"You know, I can be quite helpful to you and your team."  
  
"Thanks," replied Gordon hesitantly, a knowing smile on his face. "But no thanks."  
  
"Suit yourself," Crane shouted after him. "Come and talk to me after the bloodshed is so grievous the river runs red and the bodies pile high enough to reach the executive suite of Wayne Enterprises." Crane watched as Gordon continued to walk away. "You know my number."  
  


* * *

  
  
The Joker didn't want Harley questioning him at every turn or tripping him up as she prattled around underdog. She slept soundly, completely oblivious to his manic rummaging of her apartment. They wouldn't be there for much longer, maybe another night, maybe less. He didn't trust her well enough to make sure everything he wanted to haul with them made it. He gathered everything together in her fairly unused kitchen, the drugs he had Harley order, the weaponry and other odds and ends he wanted to bring along.  
His mind wandering often, the Joker often became distracted, insisting him to stop and examine Harley's belongings. Her cheap bookshelf unit was of particular curiosity to him as he pulled out every single book from the shelves. Dropping the boring ones instantly, throwing the aggravating titles over his shoulder and only flipping through the semi-interesting books he soon lost interest and discovered the cabinet containing her music collection.  
  
A disarray of CDs, records and cassette tapes in no kind of order showed what polite people would call an eclectic taste in music. To the Joker she was indecisive, confused and constantly searching for that perfect sound.  _Pathetic._  
  
After sating his need to rummage, the Joker's mind was back to business. Silently creeping into the bedroom, he eyed Harley carefully to make sure she was asleep as he leaned down beside her and took the phone from the floor. He wasn't exactly a phone person but one call was absolutely necessary. Dialing the one number he knew by heart he went back to the kitchen and sat on the counter, waiting as the phone on the other end rang.  
  
"What?" snapped a very irritable man's voice.  
  
"Is that any way to talk to your boss?"  
  
There was a tense pause. "Joker? Is that you?"  
  
"No, it's the Batman," replied Joker deadpanned, eyeing a utility lighter on a shelf above the sink. That would come in handy. "I'm making house calls only now so you had better be on your best behavior."  
  
"Fuck I thought you was locked up in the nuthouse!"  
  
"Turns out the placated life of the average lunatic was not for me. You know I don't like idle hands."  
  
"I don't see anything on the news."  
  
"Yes, about that. Seems like the good boys in blue are deliberately keeping me out of the press. Now, I wouldn't ever call myself a press whore but I think a story like terrorist escapes asylum has a kind of nice, mass panic appeal to it, don't you? Make some anonymous phone calls, will you?"  
  
"Sure thing," his lackey said, getting excited that he was finally back in business. "Anything else?"  
  
"Yes. My new...uh, employee here is very charming but not the brightest crayon in the box. She failed to provide adequate transportation for us."  
  
" _She_ , boss?"  
  
Joker did not want to get into it. "Get a pen and take down this address. I'll need you here around...oh, let's say four."  
  
"This afternoon?" he gaffed.  
  
"A.M, you moron."  
  
"That's what I'm talkin' about! OK, ready."  
  
Joker hung up after giving him the address. His original intent with all lackeys was to dispense of them as soon as their usefulness ran out; however his time in Arkham was a little premature and several of his soldiers were still running around with breath in their lungs. Good to know all of them had not been careless enough to be caught and jailed. If they had it would not have mattered; he would have taught Harley how to hot wire a car but having an extra set of hands to help carry things down in one go was more useful than a lesson in grand theft auto. Now if only he could remember this fellow's name...  
  
Memory was a selective process with the Joker. His mind was unlike everyone he had met in that he more than perfectly understood the electricity that flowed through his body and brain,  _he felt it_. He was conscious of every impulse, every expression, and every action he made, from his head to his toes. Which is why being labeled insane was unbelievably infuriating; insane?! Being insane would imply being mentally imbalanced, a notion the Joker found woefully insulting.  _I am perfectly balanced, thank you very much Arkham, coppers, Batman. Just because a guy has a couple of slices...on his face...doesn't mean...he...is...crazy..._  
  
Emitting a ferocious growl, the Joker slammed the phone repeatedly against the wall, breaking it in several pieces of broken plastic and wires. Dropping the phone, he clutched his head between his arms and thrashed around the kitchen until he came to a crouching position; squeezing his head so tight he could feel the blood flow beneath his skin. His mind quieting, he was able to finally go back to his usual thought process; an indescribable stream of conscious, swirling chaos that connected with his personal electric current, giving way to cause and effect.  
  
Aside from these rare moments of reverie, it was becoming increasingly easier to push away the memories of not-so-long ago, the time before his true self emerged. That life was extinct and there was no purpose to keep memories of the dead around.  
  
Having too much free time on his hands in Arkham gave opportunity for nasty, unpleasant images to creep into his mind and there were the disturbing moments when he caught Harley looking at him and he would look at her...and something would just pop into his brain, some glimmer of a feeling once known. He couldn't put a name, place or date on it...but it annoyed the hell out of him. Those moments when their eyes would lock and a flash of something he had painstakingly squashed away would suddenly rear its ugly head...those moments were the ones when the desire to kill her came the most.  
  
Another reason he did not want her underfoot was so he could reassess the situation with her. He hadn't planned on the extremity of the situation; an accomplice's loyalty was one thing, but her slavish zealousness was something entirely unexpected, even for him. She wanted him to own her and suddenly, sitting there on her kitchen counter, he realized the enormous responsibility that owning her would entail. It would be easier to kill her. He could end it all with the flick of his knife and start from scratch...it wouldn't be too difficult to find another willing lab rat...  
  
_No,_  he told himself with finality. He wouldn't. Nothing like her would ever breeze his way again...like the Batman, his Harley was something too intriguing to destroy. She had to be studied, pushed further then she ever thought herself capable...  
  
An overwhelming sensation of electrifying, unadulterated possession spread over him; his hold on her was no longer purely for entertainment or even for his own morbid curiosity. She  _belonged_  to him now, like his knives belonged to him. She had a  _purpose_. He wouldn't make any allowances for her, though. Oh,  _no_. Belonging to him would only mean it will be that much harder for her to keep up with him and stay on his good side. Thinking back to her disjointed taste in music the Joker was seized with the realization that it was the story of her life; the divided mind, split in varied directions the fear of the path not taken and what may have been...  
  
His immediate goal with her was finally realized. Joker would have to perfect keeping her mind only focused on him so that every decision she would have to make without his assistance would be heavily influenced on what would  _please him_  most. Every thought that entered her head had to include him in the equation, least she begin to think about her own goals and feelings and drift away...it was really for her own good. Twisting her brain to think this way would save her life in the long run.  
"I'm jumping ahead of myself," the Joker said, needing to hear himself say it aloud so his mind would shut up on the matter. Harley would still have to prove herself tonight. If she could pull off what he has in store for her then he knew...she would be his forever.

* * *

  
  
Harvey Two-Face Dent was finally back in his cell that afternoon. He was questioned near to death and the vast majority he did not even answer. The crime scene photographer knelt outside of his cell, putting his equipment back in their case, cast a glance at the Joker's message, then Harvey and left quickly. He thought he would be able to finally go back to sleep when Commissioner Gordon walked up to his cell door. Harvey stared at him for one long moment before finally looking away.  
  
"I know you know something, Harvey," said Gordon gently. "Crane said the Joker was mouthing off to you and him about escaping."  
  
"Why would you believe Crane?"  
  
"Because, unlike the Joker, he's not manipulative with his words. Crane's ego won't allow him to be. I'm sure he wants to gain something out of telling me but I'm not worried about it as of yet. What I'm more concerned about is this." He gestured to the blood scrawled words. "What does it mean?"  
  
"How should I know?"  
  
"Come on, Harvey. What do you know?"  
  
Harvey sighed before answering. "The people here...they didn't know what they were up against when they brought him here. I wouldn't doubt for a minute that the Joker knew how to escape from the day they brought him here. Just like when you brought him into the MCU."

Now it was Gordon's turn to look away, guilt for Harvey and Rachel Dawes making him unable to look the former D.A. in either eye.  
  
"Crane mentioned a pass key the Joker may have had."  
  
"That I know nothing about."  
__  
So the Joker did brag to Crane more, thought Gordon.  
  
"What I do know is this: if your men are ever able to strike gold twice and catch him...things will have to change here at Arkham."  
  
"Yes, I'm with you on that."  
  
"Because I don't think you will ever stop seeing him out on the streets...not just the Joker but those like him. Like Crane."  _Like me,_ Harvey thought darkly.  
  
Gordon seemed to register what Harvey implied. He nodded and tried to smile but found he could not. "Thanks for your time, Harvey. Get some rest." He pointed to the ugly, vile words. "We'll get someone up here to clean this filth off."  
  
Harvey stared at the message, contemplating. Harvey wanted very much for the words to just disappear so he could go back to sleep, even silently hope that the Joker would rig Arkham to as much explosives he could get his sick hands on and just let the sky turn red. Another voice...a deeper voice Harvey had been hearing more often thought differently.  
  
_Come on, Harvey. Let's get out of here; you know you want to. Obviously Crane has something up his sleeve; let's figure it out and team up._  
  
"Crane is a madman," protested Harvey.  
__  
Look who's talking! Come on, you want revenge on the Joker, right? You know he was playing you for a fool all along.  
  
"I am a fool and I don't have the energy for revenge," sighed Harvey, closing his eye.  
__  
Not even for Rachel?  
  
"That's low," Harvey argued.  
__  
OK, I'm sorry. But admit it; you want to go outside and play.  
  
"It has nothing to do with what I want..."  
__  
Everything to do with fate.  
  
"Yes."  
__  
Then flip for it. You did it once, you can do it again. He got lucky the first time. Let's see if lightening strikes twice in his favor.  
  
"That sounds fair." Harvey was supposed to have turned in his lucky coin as part of the therapeutic process but he had not been willing to make such a bold step. However, he had not flipped for something since his first week at Arkham. That was progress according to his psychiatrist. Looking down at the coin in the palm of his hand, Harvey said, "I guess this would qualify taking a gargantuan step backwards."  
__  
Shut up and flip the damn coin, Harvey.  
  
Harvey did as he told him, flipping the coin, watching its sleek silver glimmer in the dim florescent light before dropping ever so daintily on his palm to be flipped onto his forearm. Raising his hand, Two-Face grinned. Joker's luck had just run out.

* * *

  
Joker was staring at two framed photographs hanging on the wall in the stubby little spit of a hall. The first photograph depicted a young, mouse brown haired teenager, Harley twelve or so years ago in a gymnast uniform, a medal around her neck and a large trophy in her hands. The gleam in her eye was unmistakable; she had won and she was wallowing in pride. The Joker could imagine her thoughts, no sympathy for the losers, just a love for the hunt of competition and the thrill of personal gain.  
  
The other photograph was some years later; she was blonde now, obviously in college from her GSU crop top. She was being held up in the arms of a handsome young man, her arms raised high over his head in some kind of celebratory cheer. Maybe GSU had won some stupid game. The whole picture looked like it was from another planet to him.  
  
He took both of the pictures into the kitchen. Ripping the older photograph out of its frame he took it into the kitchen and lit it on fire with the utility lighter Harley kept on the shelf over her sink, where he dumped the picture, watching it curl and burn into a pile of ashes. No use dwelling on the past; that brunette life was gone now. If her zeal to win was still within her, it will eventually manifest. He turned his attention to the college photo.  
  
To the untrained eye, Harley looked happy but the Joker's eyes were wide open and he knew better. He saw the baby blue eyes looking out, begging for something more. Unable to help himself, the Joker gave sly smile back to photo Harley. Looking at the chump holding her, the Joker tsked, "You got it all wrong, pal. You don't lift her up," he threw the framed photo across the kitchen, calmly watching it clatter in the corner, the glass shattering. "You knock her down."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I tried to capture what, in my mind, this Nolanverse Joker has to be going through from a mentally-ill point of view. This is a guy who had something so traumatic happen to him it pushed him over the proverbial edge. Joker in canon comics doesn't even remember his past clearly, hence the multiple origin stories. There isn't any one because he doesn't even know - after years of training his mind to forget. As this Joker is just breaking out I think he would still be in the process of eliminating memories of his past. This self-induced memory wipe, along with all of his mental-illnesses contributes greatly to why he takes issue with having feelings for Harley. It's foreign and distracting.
> 
> \- I know it might be irritating to some of you for me to be constantly switching from Harleen/Harley but that is what I am doing until she is 100% Harley Quinn. Harleen is the face for the unsuspecting. Harley is now her thoughts and the time she spends with Joker alone. One more chapter of it, I promise.


	5. Two of Diamonds: Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Loyalty and devotion lead to bravery. Bravery leads to the spirit of self-sacrifice. The spirit of self-sacrifice creates trust in the power of love." - Morehei Ueshiba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for graphic violence.

"Wakey, wakey," Joker said, lightly scratching Harley's cheek. Slowly, she warmed to his touch and waking up opened her eyes to find him sitting up behind her. He never finished dressing, merely stayed in his pinstriped pants with no shoes or shirt.   
  
"What time is it?" she asked, her voice heavy from sleep.  
  
"Time for you to stop asking questions and just do as I say."  
  
Yawning, she sat up and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. She was surprised to discover he had let her sleep all day; it was nearly six o'clock.  
  
"Come on!" he nudged her with all of his weight. "Hurry up or else you'll miss it."  
  
Hopping out of bed Harley was burning with curiosity but knew not to ask. Scooping up her discarded towel from last night, Harley looked suggestively over her shoulder and swung the towel like a boa. "Wanna join me?"  
  
Deeply smiling, the Joker leaned back on her bed and felt for his shoe on the other side, grabbing it by the laces. "If I join you, then we'll  _both_ miss it." He flung the boot at her, nearly hitting her. "Now go!"  
  
Shrieking as the knife within the boot emerged within an inch of her head; Harley ducked and slammed the bathroom door.  
She was sure to be quick, not wanting to risk his wrath for the sake of lather, rinse, and repeat. When she emerged from the bathroom some ten minutes later, her body wrapped in her red towel, he was giddily fidgeting at the end of her bed, the TV on in front of him and her hairbrush in his hands.  
  
"Just in time! Sit, sit."  
  
Harley sat exactly where he directed, where he had been in direct line of the television. Humming, the Joker knelt behind her and began to brush her wet hair, using his fingers to comb out any tangles. Clearly her attention was meant for the television, so Harley focused her attention on the six o'clock news just coming on.  
  
"We're live outside Arkham Asylum where it has just been confirmed that the Joker has recently escaped."  
  
"How-?" Harley started, only to have her head turned forward with a menacing growl.   
  
"The Joker escaped some time last night, killing two Arkham staff members on his way out. The names of the victims have not yet been released and we are still trying to receive a comment from one of the medical team whom the Joker's court ordered psychiatric care and incarceration was given to. No word yet on where the Joker might be although Gotham PD reminds citizens not to approach the suspect as he is expected to be armed and very dangerous."  
  
"Me?" the Joker said in his best mock innocent voice. He was sectioning Harley's hair, brushing it roughly but deftly with a clear purpose in mind.   
  
"How did they find out?" asked Harley, making sure to keep her head rigidly forward.   
  
"Oh, lots of ways. Anonymous tips...glory hound nurses and orderlies looking to make a quick buck."  
  
Clearly he was proud of this news leak and Harley wanted to stay on his good side. "I bet they're all scrambling around at Arkham and the MCU, trying to figure out what you got up your sleeve."  
  
"Heh."  
  
"Now that the word is out people are going to be hysterical with fear. Trying to get out of Gotham...thinking you're going to jump out at them from every corner."  
Joker snickered. He knew she was buttering him up but he didn't care; a little ego boosting never hurt any mastermind. Continuing to work on her hair, he was careful to get it absolutely right, as he envisioned it in his head.   
  
"Now you're halfway decent for company," he said when he was finished, standing up to examine her from all angles. "Go look."  
  
Looking at herself in the full length mirror she was impressed by ingenuity of his handiwork. Her hair had been swept up in two buns on either side of her head with a single braid looped down the center of each bun. It reminded her of a jester hat with her braids for liliripes.   
  
"All right," he snapped irritably, ripping her from her reflection. "Enough vanity for you. Keep your attention on the news." He flicked on her closet light and sat on the floor, rifling through her dressers. She made a noise, obviously confused and curious. Looking up at her briefly, he explained. "I'm packing the things I want you to bring. We're leaving tonight."  
  
Swooning with elation over the news, Harley happily let him pick and chose whatever he wanted out of her wardrobe and went back to watching the evening news.

* * *

  
  
By ten o'clock that night the Joker finally felt he had gathered absolutely everything, including a small bag for Harley filled only with necessities. He did not trust her to not pack something silly and impractical like a pair of flip flops or cut-off's. He had packed her a few ensembles that would show off her physique but this was for strategic possibilities, not personal indulgence. She had patiently waited in her towel to be permitted to get to her clothes and when he finally gave her the green light she bounded towards the closet, grateful. He caught her by the wrist.  
  
"Wear something... _mischievous_."  
  
Thinking her man was in a playful mood, Harley frantically dug in the piles of discarded clothes that littered her closet. Finally, she found it; her white satin baby doll that tied tightly underneath her breasts and flaring silkily below, her white and red ruffle panties playing peek-a-boo at the hem of the top. Standing in the doorway of the closet, expecting a warm reception, she instead found the Joker in bathroom, applying his face paint.  
  
"How 'bout this?" she asked, leaning suggestively against the frame. He cast a brief glance at her in the mirror.  
  
"Perfect. Now go bring that cop outside in the living room and make sure to get his gun away from him before you stabilize him."  
  
"What?" she said, deadpan.   
  
"Did I stutter?" he asked in a dangerous voice.   
  
"N-no," said quickly replied, tensing up.  _Don't make a fuss, Harley. He wants you to do this for him. It is an honor._  "Do you want me to shoot him?"  
  
"That wouldn't be any fun now would it?" he answered conversationally, smearing the white paint across his chin, turning his face to the side for better viewing. "No, we'll make sure Mr. Law knows every second of his life is closer to his last. You just work him into a nice, comfortable lull first." He lifted his eyes to stare heavily at her via the mirror. "I don't care what you have to do, say or touch to get him to think he's your hero. Just get him feeling cozy, safe and then make sure he's totally unable to move so I can help you with the  _really_  fun part." Smiling widely at her, the Joker turned his attention back to his face. Closing the door partially and her bedroom drapery doors, Harley grabbed her black robe to cover the markings from last night then walked over to the front door and bowed her head against it.   
  
_I'm afraid. I'm afraid and lonely. A psycho is after me and I am shut up in my apartment. Be afraid. Be lonely. Be friendly.  
_  
Opening the door a crack so that only a sliver of her face was visible, Harleen looked out into the hall and out at the officer standing guard outside her door.  
  
"Hello," she said softly, a gentle smile in greeting.  
  
The officer was clearly surprised to see her. He smiled back, though.   
  
"Good evening, ma'am."  
  
"Ma'am?" she repeated, a giggling breath behind the word. "I don't think I'm quite there yet."  
  
"Sorry, miss," he corrected, blushing nervously. "I'm not from Gotham originally."  
  
"Oh?" she played dumb, as if she hadn't detected his twang. "Where are you from?"  
  
"Fayetteville, North Carolina."  
  
"Long way from home."  
  
Turning his attention to her the officer, probably a good five to seven years older than her, smiled his friendly home grown smile.  
  
"That it is. I never expected it to be so busy here."  
  
"You mean crime ridden?"  
  
"Yeah. I came here after I finished my tour of duty. Got out, had to decide what to do with myself."  
  
"A soldier turned police officer?"  
  
"Got to continue to help clean up the scum of society. Where else to start than Gotham, especially now that the biggest piece of scum is on the loose?"  
  
Smiling sweetly on the outside, Harley inwardly exclaimed, _He just called Mister J scum. He will die!_  
  
"What about you?" the officer asked, a playful smile across his sun tanned face. "How'd a nice gal like you end up working at Arkham?"  
  
"I find the work challenging and rewarding." She inched the door away from her face a little more. "Doesn't leave much time for socializing though."  
  
"I hear that," the officer said, his dark blonde hair falling into his eyes. "Gotham criminals never sleep; makes it hard to maintain a relationship."  
  
"What, you're not married?" Harleen gasped. "I find that hard to believe."  
  
"Oh, believe it," he laughed good naturedly. "I was once, actually. To my high school sweetheart. She didn't much care for the military life. We're good friends, of course, but just...too different now."  
  
"That's a shame," she said sympathetically. "Luckily Gotham is full of available women."  
  
"They're very intimidating," he admitted with slight embarrassment. "I never thought the big city woman personality was real until I tried dating again after I moved here. Whew. They're all so professional and ambitious. No one wants to really settle down and have a family...as old fashion as it sounds."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with wanting a simple life," said Harleen. Boring, thought Harley.  
  
"I keep trying to tell myself that I should just forget the idea altogether."  
  
"No," protested Harleen. "You can't compromise yourself to fit somebody else's standards. A relationship can't last that way."  
  
The officer nodded appreciatively. "I guess you should know, being a shrink and all. You should stop working with the screwballs and start up as one of those relationship kind of docs."  
  
"Maybe I will," Harleen said, looking down at the floor, biting her bottom lip. "After this...ordeal is over."  
  
"Hey, it's all right. Don't worry; we caught him once, we'll catch him again. Especially now that we know what to expect."  
_  
The hell you do_ , she thought behind her encouraging smile. "Would you like to come in for some coffee?"  
  
"Oh," he looked down the hall on either side of, suddenly aware of his post. "I don't know about that. Wouldn't look very professional, seeing as how I'm here to protect you."  
  
"Who said you wouldn't be?" Harleen replied. "If anything, you would have a better advantage being on the inside of my apartment...us being separated...well, how would we alert one another if something was to happen?"  
  
He caught a glimpse of her playful hairdo. "You have a point." Looking at his watch he remained reluctant. "It's ten-thirty, though. I don't want to keep you up."  
  
"How can I possibly sleep? I've been here cooped up in my apartment for over twenty-four hours. Trust me, officer...?"  
  
"Brad Thomason."  
  
"Officer Brad Thomason," her pink cupid bow smile spread across her face. "I'm in _dire need_  of human interaction."  
  
He consented and opening the door to let him in, asked him to pardon her attire. He didn't seem to mind, only nervously accepted her invitation to sit on the cherry red chair.  
  
"I'll go make your coffee," she said after seeing that he was comfortable and would not be likely to get up and snoop around. "Just make yourself comfy."  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Quinzel."  
  
Harley started at hearing the name; it was becoming increasingly foreign to her. She went through the kitchen swing door and scrounged around for coffee, finding some old instant coffee bags shoved at the back of her pantry. She liked coffee but typically purchased it on her way to the gym...in her former life anyway.  
  
Eyeballing the mountain of supplies the Joker had gathered together Harley spotted the neuromuscular-blocking drugs and her black case of syringes and hypodermic needles. While the coffee bag soaked in the mug of hot water, Harley quickly and silently prepared the drug then placed the rubber cap on the exposed needle tip and tucked it in between her hip and panties.   
  
  
"Here you are," she said cheerfully upon returning to the living room, handing Officer Thomason his mug of coffee.   
  
"Thanks." Holding the steaming cup between his rough hands Officer Thomason looked around the living room, his face registering worry at the books Harley only realized now were strewn about the room.   
  
"I was going a little stir crazy today," Harleen laughed, sitting opposite on the couch. "Some of these books just need to go! You know? A little belated spring cleaning." This seemed to satisfy the policeman.   
  
"How'd you get that cut on your face?" Officer Thomason asked with concern.  
  
"Hm? Oh, uh, my friend's cat. I was cat sitting the other night." It was a shit excuse but she had forgotten about the cut on the side of her face. Officer Thomason did not question it.   
  
"If you don't mind my saying you don't look like a doctor."  
  
"I don't mind." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her bare knees, the top of her breasts bared between the folds of her robe. Thomason tried not to stare; was that a bruise on her left breast?   
  
"So what kind of profession do I appear to hold?" Harleen asked, drawing away his attention from her body.  
_  
Say stripper,_  thought the Joker from his position the floor by the foot of Harley's bed.  _Say stripper! I dare you; say stripper!_  
  
"An actress or a ballerina, maybe."  
  
"I'm not that interesting or talented," Harleen said modestly, with a slight flattered blush rising in her cheeks.  
  
"What made you pursue psychiatry?"  
  
Harleen sat back against her cushions and crossed her impossibly fit legs. "My deep interest of the brain. The human mind is the most fascinating thing in this world. It's capable of great and terrible things; it can be our greatest asset or our worst enemy. All of its complexities are what rank humans number one and we're still unsure of all of the full potential we carry in our minds."  
  
"Wow, Dr. Quinzel-"  
  
"Call me Harley."  
  
"All right. Harley. What you said earlier about not being interesting? Bullshit. Oh, excuse me."  
  
"Don't worry about it," she said with a genuine breath of laughter. "And thank you." She kept her eyes steadily on his, working her subtly suggestiveness on his nerves as he began to fidget in the chair, trying to hold her gaze. Officer Thomason didn't know if it was the caffeine in his coffee, the lack of recent female interaction, the danger of the situation or just the sultry Harley, seemingly unaware of her scandalous outfit peeping out from her robe...or whatever...he was suddenly very self-conscious of his surroundings.  
  
Clearing his throat nervously Officer Thomason observed, "You sure are brave, taking on a psychopath, knowing the risks...having to go through this."  
  
"Actually," Harleen's lips trembled. "I'm terrified." She quickly looked away, making a show of casually brushing away non-existent tears. "That's really why I wanted you here. So I could feel safe. I'm not brave at all." Rapidly blinking and sniffling, Harleen could only keep her sight fixated on the couch.   
  
"Hey, now don't cry," Officer Thomason joined her on the couch, wrapping a powerful arm around her petit shoulders. Leaning against him, Harleen placed her arms around his neck and gave a few convincing sniffles. Rubbing her back soothingly, never curious about the two conspicuous bumps under each shoulder blade, Thomason pulled her close to him.   
  
"Ouch," Harleen recoiled, eyeing the gun on his holster with a blushing grin. She rubbed the side of her abdomen that he been jabbed by the weapon.   
  
"Sorry," he replied, his breath a little heavy from the heated awkwardness of their bodies. He removed the gun and placed it on the single end table, next to Harley. Going back to their comforting position, Harley snuggled closer to the officer, quietly withdrawing the syringe from her undergarment, expertly removing the cap with the flick of her thumb.   
  
Officer Brad Thomason was a gentleman. He prided himself on his code of honor and respect for all good people. It had been a long time she felt needed by a woman, like a provider. He made a vow to himself to just enjoy Dr. Harleen Quinzel's company, to not think about her unbelievable sexiness and focus wholly on protecting her. Just as a surge of manly pride began to swell in his well built chest, Officer Thomason felt the hypodermic needle enter a central vein on his neck.  
  
Harley was too quick for him, even with his military reflexes. He had been too relaxed and she had always been ready to spring. Leaping back with his gun in her hand, even as Officer Thomason tried in vain to lunge forward, the drug working its magic swiftly, Harley swooped down and grabbed his radio walkie-talkie.   
  
"Don't need to share our little party with the cop downstairs now."  
  
Thomason growled, his tongue unable to move as it suddenly felt heavy in his mouth...every part of his body was suddenly heavy and numb.  
  
"It's just anesthetic," Harley explained calmly. "Used to paralyze the body when a patient goes in for surgery. Of course, I don't know what sort of effect the caffeine you consumed might have with it...you might find your heart doing some wonky stuff. We'll see."  
  
Slumped to his right side, Thomason was staring beyond Harley now.  
  
"You..."  
  
Harley turned to see the Joker against the opposite wall, one foot up against the wall, arms crossed, knives in hand. His face paint was complete but still had not put on any other clothes. In fact, he had deliberately rolled up the hem on his pants, now slightly above his ankles.  
  
"You know, Officer," the Joker began, amused. "If I had been able to request the ideal candidate to be sent here to protect my little Harley girl I could never have described the absolute perfection that you embody. Not even if you came gift wrapped. Which you did, in your good old boy charm and military meat head good looks." He came closer, standing next to Harley for a moment of contemplation before suddenly pulling back her head by a braid. "Even if I happen to believe she was doing too good of a job convincing you of her interest."  
  
"No," Harley protested in fear. "I wasn't that good."  
  
Looking at her cockeyed, he snarled, "Are you contradicting me?"  
  
"No, no."  
  
"Then you were hamming it up just a smidgen?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And wouldn't you say that you had more than a professional interest in our company?"  
  
Refusing to answer, Harley whimpered in pain instead. Losing interest, the Joker threw her to the floor and turned his attention to Officer Thomason.   
  
"I can't imagine what the state of the military is if they let goofy goons like you in," laughed the Joker. "Come on; did you really believe some ordinary cat did this fine piece of work?" the Joker held up Harley's head, cruelly turning her marred face towards Thomason. He then tore away the robe from her body, exposing the bruises, cuts and bite marks. "Or any of this for that matter?"   
  
Thomason was clearly wounded by looking at her, unsure still of the dynamic going on between them. Did that lunatic force her to do this? Of course he did.  
  
The Joker seemed to understand what was going through Thomason's mind. With a howling laugh, the Joker tilted his head back and nudged Harley playfully.   
"He thinks I'm holding you captive, Harley. Look at him, pumpkin, he wants to kill me for making you do this to him...and yourself. Set him straight." Joker stepped over her and sat down in the chair, fiddling with his knives.  
  
Harley fluttered her eyes at the policeman, whose eyes were begging her not to tell him.  
  
"No..." he managed, unable to shake his head.   
  
Her coy, lip-biting expression slowly began to curl into a wide, surreptitious grin that reminded Thomason of the Grinch who stole Christmas. Twisting her beautiful shoulders around so that Thomason got a nice view of her back, she slipped down the straps of her slinky outfit and showed him the scarification tattoos. Staring at the mock card symbols and the center devil joker figure, a shuttering breath emerged from Brad Thomason, his exhaustive frustration and profound disappointment coming together all at once in that single breath.  
Harley crawled back to sit on her heels beside Mister J, who had forgiven her flirtation enough to lift one braid and twirl it idly, wondering where to go next. A voice from the radio startled them.  
  
"Hey, Brad, how's it looking on your end?"  
  
"Oh, dear," said the Joker, picking up the radio. "I guess it would do you no good to maintain radio silence, hm?" Holding the talk button down, the Joker held the walkie-talkie down to Harley's lips, urging her on with a look.  
  
"Hello?" came the sweet, timid Harleen voice. "This is Dr. Quinzel. Could you come up here for a moment, please, sir?"  
  
"Is everything OK, miss? Where is Thomason?"  
  
"He said he would be right back and left me with the radio to call you in case I got scared...could you please come up?"  
  
A frustrated sigh. "Sure, doctor. I'll be right up."  
  
"Apartment E-15. Thank you."  
  
Placidly turning off the radio, the Joker turned to the open window and chucked the device out, hearing it crash on the pavement below. Thomason prayed his partner, Caruthers, would call for back up before being stupid enough to leave his post.   
  
"As I was saying," the Joker continued. "Harley was only doing what I asked her, uhh..." He tugged Harley's braid.  
  
"Brad," she replied helpfully.  
  
"Brad. Of course you are. Anyway. Yes, she was only doing what I told her...but I assure you, Brad, she is completely in control of her free will."  
  
The strapping officer managed to utter something, albeit slurred. Joker leaned forward with a frown, catching it.   
  
"What did you just call me?  _Sick. Fuck?_ "  
  
The glimmer in Thomason's eyes told that Joker had heard correctly.   
  
"Actually, I'm quite in good health." He held up his OTF knife and a straightedge razor Harley had purchased from his list. "You, on the other hand, aren't looking well at all. Officer Brad, I know that you're more than likely the product of poor public education system but surely you have heard of the fine, ancient art of bloodletting?"  
Thomason felt the beads of sweat gathering at his brow as he tried to remain calm and keep his breathing steady.   
  
Joker leaned forward, sitting at the edge of the cushion. "Did you know that this  _fascinating_  practice lasted nearly two thousand years, Brad? Hmm? Did you? See, all of the great minds of the time firmly believed that all diseases in the human body were the result of overabundance's in the blood. Thus, the only way to alleviate the poor patient was to purge them of said overabundance's." Quick as lightening, the Joker reached over and took a fierce swipe with the OTF knife, cutting open Thomason's cheek. "And get this; even barber's got into the act!" Joker laughed as he held up the straightedge razor and stood up, looming over Thomason. "Let's see if I recall correctly...got a dilly with your liver, Brad?" Joker swooped down and cut into a vein on the policeman's right hand. "There you go! How 'bout the old spleen?" He sliced a left hand vein. "No worries!"  
  
Thomason didn't know if he was physically able to wince with the potent drug completely incapacitating him but he felt his heart quicken in response to both cuts. A firm knock interrupted his thoughts, now giving way to panic. There was no way Caruthers called for back up; the moron just came up.  
  
"Expect my bill in the mail," muttered the Joker in Brad's face before standing behind the door as Harley opened it partway, showing off her battered body.  
  
"Oh my god, what happened?" said the deep voice of Officer Caruthers.   
  
"It's awful," cried Harley on the verge of hysterics. "Come in, quick!"  
  
Caruthers stepped inside as she backed up, his eyes taking in Thomason lying paralyzed on the couch, just beginning to wonder what the hell could have happened when a hot, smooth blade sliced deeply across his neck in one fluid motion, ending his life in seconds. Harley watched eagerly, her knuckles in her mouth as she tittered from her crouching position on the chair, watching the body drop face down, blood pooling over the hardwood floor.   
  
Thomason wished he would pass out but he didn't. That blasted caffeine mixed with his adrenaline kept him buzzing with anxiety.   
Walking over to Harley, the Joker opened his hands before her, either blade in each hand.   
  
"Ladies choice, my dear."  
  
Shyly, she chose the straightedge razor. "I could never use one of your special knives."  
  
Joker's vicious grin told her she had chose rightfully. He took her hand as she rose to her feet and together they stood over the prone, helpless policeman.  
  
"He called you scum," spat Harley.  
  
"Now, pumpkin, it wasn't him talking, it was the fever. Why don't you relieve him of it?"  
  
"Gladly."  
  
Joker stood back, watching her take over, seeing how far she would go for him. Out of his peripherals he caught sight of her stereo system and decided a little music couldn't hurt, seeing as how music had healing powers and all. When he switched on the radio it was static, catching Harley off-guard. Spinning the dial, the tuner landed on the oldies station.  
  
The upbeat Motown sound of Jackie Wilson blasted through the speakers, giving Harley a rhythmic encouragement as she descended the razor against the unmarked side of Thomason's face, the blood spilling down into his partially open mouth and chin. A titillating sensation spread through Harley, the lyrics took hold of her, inspiring a spring in her step as she tore away at Officer Thomason's uniform, revealing bare skin for the razor to split open.

_Your love, lifting me higher  
Than I ever been lifted before  
So keep it up   
Quench my desire  
And I'll be at your side forever more_

_You know your love  
Keeps on lifting me  
Higher   
Higher and higher  
I said your love  
Keep on lifting me  
Higher and Higher_

  
  
She had a good twenty slashes in a variety of places and angles across his torso, five slices on the face including a dangerously deep laceration skewed up his forehead, the blood dripping into his closed left eye. Every wound bled in sweet, angular lines like paint on a canvas. Dancing around the couch, searching for a more unique area, Harley took an impulsive swipe down the back of his ear, causing the smallest of groans to bubble up from his throat. Scraping the top of his head, finding his dark blonde hair too perfect, it now shined with sticky red blood. Doing the peppermint twist as the razor came down in an artistic frenzy against his exposed back, Harley hummed along to the music.  
  


_Now once I was down hearted  
Disappointment was my closest friend  
But then you came and it soon departed  
And you know he never  
Showed his face again_

  
  
As Harley rounded the other side, lifting her hand to make a final blow, the Joker grabbed her wrist and spun her close against him, the razor pressed between them, staining her white satin negligee. His hands on her slim hips, the Joker led her backwards in a crazed, grotesque jive. 

_You know your love  
Keeps on lifting me  
Higher   
Higher and higher  
I said your love  
Keep on lifting me  
Higher and Higher_

  
  
Officer Thomason could only see out of one eye now. He knew he was meant to die here...if only it wasn't at the hand of these two freaks, dancing around his dying body in a manic swing jive, the Joker extending Harley out and her exaggerated spins and dips, always being extended by her dance partner every other second to give him new gashes on his legs, making sure to go through the fabric of his uniform. Each cut was like fire, igniting then dulling as they joined the previous pain. He could feel the blood seeping out of him, his life slowly and painfully ebbing away.

_I'm so glad I've finally found you  
Yes, that one in a million girl  
And now with my loving arms around you  
Honey, I can stand up and face the world  
Let me tell you, your love  
Keeps on lifting me  
Higher   
Higher and higher  
And I said your love  
Keep on lifting me  
Higher and Higher_

  
  
Extending her one final time, the Joker gave Harley an encouraging push towards Thomason before he stepped back, keeping her other wrist firmly grasped in his clutch. Harley glared down at Thomason, looked back at her Mister J and with one wide, auspicious smile from him, Harley made the final blow, slicing the jugular vein.  
  
Joker let go of her wrist, immensely pleased. The radio went to commercial but Harley was no longer paying attention. She was looking down at the police officer on her couch, dead and covered in straightedge razor marks from head to knees. His blood deepened the red coloration of her couch, dripping to mingle with his partners blood already cooled on the hardwood floor. She had killed this man; tricked him and taken his life. Harley looked over at the Joker, noticing the blood from the other officer on his face, chest and feet. He had known there was going to be a lot of bloodshed tonight; that's why he never bothered to fully dress. Looking down at herself, the blood splattered over her white outfit and various parts of her body, Harley's mind drew a blank.  
  
The Joker stood back, ready to bring her down if her murderous act brought forth emotions of guilt and remorse, especially in the form of hysterical screams. Her downward cast head snapped up and suddenly turned attention on him, a daffy grin on her face.  
  
"How'd I do?"  
  
Eyes aglow, wicked grin spreading as his possessiveness cashed in, the Joker opened his arms. Leaping against him, he caught her in his arms and kept a firm hold on her as she wound her legs and arms around him, their blades dropping to the floor as she crushed her feverish lips to his painted ones.   
  
Spinning her around the room he crushed her back against the wall he freed one hand to pull down her ruffled panties, one of her legs unwrapping itself from his waist long enough to slide the undergarment off, already moistened. Harley was mindful to keep her head forward when he thrust into her, her body crushed against the brick wall, his upward thrusts making her sweat glistened skin scrape painfully.   
  
He felt her face contort in pain from the bricks grating on her back and, trying not to laugh at her pain, hoisted her away, one hand firmly on her tight, little bottom the other around her back as he lowered her on her back on the hardwood floor. Positioning her petite ankles on his broad shoulders, the Joker continued his forceful fucking, driving her head backward into the pool of blood left from Caruthers. Arching down over her, palms of his hands on either side of her head in the cold garnet blood, her thighs squeezing him, forcing him deeper inside, throwing her head back in an orgasmic shriek. His eyes roved over her face, noticing half of his face paint smeared messily over her once clean skin. It was beyond appealing, it was wantonly decadent and he was suddenly seized with the desire to see more of it on her. The image spurring on his possessiveness, driving him faster and harder, prompting a new set of quick, high pitched cries from Harley below him.   
  
He caught sight of his precious OTF knife just beyond her shoulder; inspiration propelling him to grab it and, leaning on one arm, sliced himself across the stomach, and above the left pectoral. Gasping, Harley watched him as he dropped the knife to spread his hand across the shallow cut, coating his hand with his own blood.   
  
Smirking, the Joker lifted his bloodied right hand and placed it squarely on Harley's face. Momentarily dazed, Harley blinked several times between heavy pants; watching his hand run down her neck, fondle each breast, down to her stomach, one long, perfect streak of blood. In response she tightened her muscles around him, causing him to close his eyes and shudder appreciatively.   
  
Harley became vaguely aware of small droplets of blood dripping into her mouth. Languidly she extended her tongue out to lick her lips, a lusty parody of his own compulsion. A malicious, lewd glint in his eyes and a guttural noise from deep within, the Joker pounded her rapidly, her unbridled screams reverberating throughout the small apartment as they simultaneously climaxed.   
  
He lay still on top of her for a while, her hands tangled in his matted, greasy hair. Harley could feel the blood from his wound soaking through her satin nightie and seeping onto her skin. Closing her eyes, she was almost asleep when he roughly picked her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her unceremoniously on her side before shutting out the light and literally falling on the mattress next to her.   
  
Curling his body against her back, his face buried at the nape of her neck, he heard her murmur something just as he was starting to drift away into slumber.  
"Did you...just call me... _pudding_?"  
  
A soft titter escaped her lips. He frowned disapprovingly, grumbling in response.  
  
"I  _hate_  pudding." 

* * *

  
  
He was awake within an hour, his mind abuzz with new ideas, trying to figure out a way to foil Commissioner Gordon and his pack of merry pigs when they discovered the gruesome scene in the morning. His employee would arrive in three hours, giving them only maybe an hour after that to complete any sort of message and get the hell out of dodge.  _Not much time for the creative process...  
_  
Like all strokes of genius, it came to him in a sudden flash of neurons and masterminded electric impulses. Yes, that would certainly keep Gordon off Harley's trail...keep them looking for the fake Harley anyway. He would need her participation of course...well, no time like the present.  
  
The Joker raised himself on one elbow, looking down at his sleeping accomplice. Tightening his grip around her, he began to massage her breasts through the ruined negligee. Pressing harder he pinched her nipples, working them up to hardened nubs but unable to wake her beyond a few sleepy moans. Rubbing his hand down her belly he lifted the garment and inserted two fingers between her legs. Her eyes flew open as she gasped awake.   
  
"What-"   
  
"Shh," he hissed, licking the side of her face. Her body tensed for a moment as he added a third finger and worked her ferociously until she was in spasms, the sticky fluids spilling down her thigh and onto the sheet beneath her as she reached full orgasm.   
  
Removing his hand from her crotch he took her knife off the bed stand and reopened the sliver crisscross marks along her white thighs then prying her legs far apart drove into her again. Perplexed to the suddenness of his actions, Harley had no time to put a single thought together as he was clearly just trying to get off in the fastest way possible. Feeling the snap of his thrusts come harder and faster, Harley spread her legs wider and lifted her backside in rhythm, expecting to meet his climax once more. Only it didn't quite happen as he pulled out and ejaculated on her sheets between her thighs. Shoulders shaking with silent laughter, the Joker buried his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her in some private joke. The sound finally joined with the spastic shaking, a wicked, delirious noise that gave Harley chills of both fear and excitement.  
  
"What?" she finally asked softly.  
  
"Just a present for Gordon's forensic team to mull over for a while."  
  
She only understood part of what he meant; unable to connect the dots in her head. Curling his hair around his ear, she asked, "Going to let me in on the joke, Mister J?"  
  
She could feel the Joker smiling against her taunt stomach as he spoke...or was it just the scars?  
  
"Oh, no. No, not this time. Sorry, Harleykins. I'm afraid you. Will. Be. Dead."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Apologizes to anyone from Fayetteville who thinks I was picking on them. I just know a NC accent well so I can imagine Thomason's voice. Apologies to people who think I am disrespecting military figures. I had to come up with a reason why a nice guy from North Carolina would ever want to live in Gotham. 
> 
> \- I hope that I absolutely ruined the song forever for all of you. Or for you sick fucks (like me) have a new twist on it. Actually, this is what was tying me up for a couple of days because I wanted a perfect song; something so uplifting and cheerful while this horrendous thing is being done. I love Motown and the song I used in this chapter is Jackie Wilson "(Your Love Keeps Lifting me) Higher & Higher." It was also in Death to Smoochy & Ghostbusters II


	6. Five of Diamonds: Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood." - Henry Miller

Ever so gently, Harley managed to shift her lithe body out of the Joker's death clutch so that she was now facing him. She did not dare wipe away the remaining face paint but tried her best to study his features from what she could see in the darkness of her room. Tracing his uneven scars with the lightest of touches Harley felt a pang of sympathy that swelled and began developing into something more...was it  _love_? God, it was. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  
  
She wasn't dumb; she knew he would kill her on an impulse if the mood urged him to do so. This was not the time to get sappy and lovesick...but she was a creature of raw emotions, more so now than ever. Now the tricky part was figuring out a way to express her love without giving him cause to put a bullet through her brain. With the way her emotions were roller coasting around between her brain and heart Harley knew that she would never be able to come up with a plan. He was too smart and would sniff her out in an instant.   
  
As the Joker subconsciously realized his face was no longer buried at the nape of her neck he curled his head downward until he found the space between her chin and shoulder, tightening himself against her. Brushing his hair with the back of her hand Harley closed her eyes to sleep once more, deciding then and there that she would leave everything up to him and her own improvisational skills.   
  
"Get the fucking door!"  
  
Harley started awake, not realizing he had left her bed for the shower. Clearly indisposed, he was yelling at her to answer the front door. She hauled herself up, pulled on her discarded ruffled underwear and answered the door.   
  
A young black man with tight braids against his scalp stood at her door. He took one good look at her, the sullied, rumpled outfit, the clown girl hair do and nodded enthusiastically. "Shit I am totally at the right door."  
  
"Who are you?" Harley asked stepping back as the man came in. He looked passively at the dead bodies on the living room floor.  
  
"Who were these guys?"  
  
"Cops posted at my building."  
  
"You do any of this?"  
  
She pointed to Officer Thomason. The young man nodded approvingly.  
  
"Not too shabby."  
  
"Who are you?" she repeated, knitting her brow.   
  
"Oh, shit, I'm sorry." He held out his hand to Harley. "Zigs."  
  
"Zigs?"  
  
"As in Zigfield Follies. I don't get it myself but the boss man gave me the name and that's what I go by. Ain't no goin' back, either and I dig it. How 'bout you? What's your name?"  
  
"Harley...Quinn."  
  
Zigs laughed appreciatively. "I dig it, I totally dig it. That Joker. He is a mad genius with the names."  
  
"Well-" Harley was about to explain her name origins when Zigs looked passed her and smiled widely.   
  
"Joker!"  
  
The Joker emerged from the back, buttoning his shirt. His lips and scars were covered with red, his sunken eyes enhanced with the black paint but no white base. Zigs greeted him with genuine warmth as if no time had passed.  
  
"Did you two properly introduce yourselves?" the Joker asked, knowing they had and grateful to know his lackey's name again. Even if he did name them it was difficult to keep them in his long term memory.   
  
"Yes," answered Harley dutifully.   
  
"She's cute," Zigs said, nodding at Harley as if she weren't there. "Got some talent, too." He thumbed the corpse of Brad Thomason. "Gotta say though, you had me worried when you mentioned a skirt."  
  
"Don't lose your faith in me now," said the Joker. "It's time for phase two." He glanced at Harley and motioned for her to leave them.  
  
"I'll just go freshen up," said Harley, worriedly looking at the two men as if they had just placed a sign that said  **NO GIRLS ALLOWED**  in her own apartment. She was quick and thorough with her shower, not wanting to miss a single moment. A third party thrown into the mix made Harley wake up and realize this was not just some little private escapade she was having on her own time; this was his life he was letting her be part of now. If he said jump, she was determined to say how high - with a smile.   
  
After she dressed in simple black pants and layered black and red tank tops Harley followed their voices to the kitchen, tentatively looking in. Mister J was sitting on the counter watching Zigs fiddle with Officer Caruthers radio, a badge and both of the firearms sitting beside him. Seeing her, the Joker's eyes told her to stay put and listen.   
  
"Who's left?" he asked Zigs.  
  
"Not many to be honest," he answered. "Couple of them are dead. Most were arrested when you were taken in. They're all still in for at least another year. No one took a plea bargain."  
  
"No one?" repeated the Joker facetiously.   
  
Zigs looked up from the radio, a knowing smile on his face. "They know they're safer behind bars keeping their traps shut than running around on the street waiting for you to find them."  
  
"Well, they're useless to me now."  
  
"True that."  
  
Examining his now clean nails, the Joker resisted the urge to bite them off. Where did that nervous twitch come from?  _No. Don't think about it. Just stop now._  
  
"What else has Gotham's finest been up to whilst I was away?"  
  
Zigs let out a long sigh. "Let's see. Traced back a couple of your old haunts, including the slaughterhouse."  
  
"Kind of gave myself away there anyway. Took them long enough though."  
  
"Apparently Maroni gave away the warehouse by the docks but he's no longer someone to be concerned about."  
  
"And my home sweet home?"  
  
"Safe and sound."  
  
Jumping off the counter, the Joker beamed as he replied, "Great." He spun on his heels, finishing his rotation with a single clap of his hands. "Now. We have to work fast," the Joker said to them. "Zigs, you take everything down to the car while Harley and I finish up here."   
  
Diligently nodding, Zigs instantly gathered as much as he could carry and left them without another word. Joker was digging through a remaining duffle bag, two large pieces of white sidewalk chalk in his hands. "Let's get cracking, while our special ink is still drippy good." Turning as he entered the front room Harley numbly watched him dip the ends of the chalk into the blood at his feet and start to write on the brick walls. Extending the other piece to her, the Joker smiled widely, the red on his face brighter than the blood at their feet. "Don't just stand there, pumpkin, I want your input on this love note, too."  


* * *

  
  
Commissioner Gordon stood outside apartment E-15. His mind was numb from shock and sorrow. His eyes were glossed over from tears that never spilled, sprung from the horror within the apartment. He had arrived at the MCU early, half of him hoping there were signs of the Joker...the other half of him, knowing a sign typically meant the death of an innocent, hoped that the Joker decided to crawl into a small hole never to return.  
  
No such fucking luck.  
  
Escorting a single morning officer to Harleen Quinzel's apartment, Gordon wanted to question Dr. Quinzel personally and offer her a ride to Arkham, after long contemplating and finally deciding she was probably safer there than alone in her apartment. Why the hell would the Joker break back into Arkham anyway? He was insane, not a moron. There was no sign of Caruthers...and Gordon's instinct for a bad feeling kicked in full force. Up on the fifth floor there was no sign of Thomason. No way would these men have just abandoned their posts.   
They had drawn their weapons but Gordon knew the Joker would not have stuck around. The door was unlocked. It was meant to be unlocked. His men in blue were meant to be found in that abdominal situation.   
  
Gordon sent his officer downstairs to wait for the backup so he could have a moment. Of course the first one on the scene was not the cops.  
  
"I can't go in there again," said Jim Gordon hoarsely, unable to keep his eyes on anything except the wall in front of him across the tiny hall. "I can't look at my men like that."  
  
The Batman turned towards Dr. Quinzel's apartment and carefully stepped into the gruesome scene.   
  
"Did you expect anything less of him?" asked the Batman coldly, his iciness not meant to be directed at Gordon but to the foolhardy doctor who did not heed his advice.   
  
"No," said Gordon, finally able to shake away the tears and straighten up. "But this is overkill."  
  
"He's angry," said the Batman, eyeing the brick walls. "We put him away, he got out," continued Batman. "He sees himself with the upper hand now."  
  
"And you don't?" scoffed Gordon from the doorway.   
  
In blood streaked white chalk the Joker had written  **HA HA HA HA HA**  in erratic, jagged letters all over the walls centered on the words, **"THANKS FOR THE FRESH MEAT, GORDO! I WAS WORRIED I WAS AFRAID ALL OF THAT THERAPY WAS ACTUALLY WORKING!"  
**  
Fresh meat? Batman thought with disgust, looking down to see piles of raw meat strewn around the bodies.   
Batman asked, "And his doctor?"  
  
"Gone. And you know we don't have much time left; he doesn't keep hostages for very long."  
  
Batman was careful not to disturb the dead as he carefully maneuvered his way around the apartment. Other than the victims and rotting raw meat, Dr. Quinzel's books and music were thrown about the living room. In the kitchen he found a broken picture frame with a photo of the college age blonde psychiatrist being held up by a boyfriend. There were ashes in the sink and traces of celluloid. Another picture, this time deliberately burned. Just as he was about to enter the bedroom, Gordon made a noise.  
  
"They're here."  
  
By the time the rest of the team was at the end of the hall where Harleen's apartment was the Batman had successfully disappeared without a trace.  


* * *

  
For all of his controlling nature, the Joker enjoyed being chauffeured. When they left her building he ordered Harley to take the wheel of the gunmetal colored SUV, Zigs the front passenger seat to give her directions while he stretched out across the back seat. Harley took off without a second glance back, no thoughts of fleeting regret or sentimentality for the life she left behind troubling her happy thoughts.   
  
Her building was one located on the north side of the Botanical Gardens, one of the last brick structures to come out of the 1920's. It had been a good fifteen minutes without traffic just to get to the closest bridge to the Narrows when she worked at Arkham. They were headed southeast now, traveling deeper into Gotham, passed the heart of downtown, through Cathedral Square to the old shipping yards that sat directly across from Blackgate Isle where Blackgate Penitentiary stood. Parking the SUV inside a dilapidated warehouse with only one door, the men got out to unload the back of the car. Inhaling the morning sea air, Harley stretched as she watched the sun rising over the bleak prison across the murky waters. She started as a bag was thrown at her. Catching it, she followed Zigs and the Joker as they lead the way down the ally of abandoned buildings to a second warehouse. Zigs noticed Harley looking around curiously and took pity enough to explain.  
  
"Nobody wants to entrust their precious cargo in a warehouse so close to a prison, even if it is on an island. Breakouts are frequent enough for the smart businessman to know to seek out another place to keep their goods."  
  
"Breakouts?" Harley repeated softly. "Especially since you set up here, I bet."  
  
The Joker looked over his shoulder at her slyly, impressed she caught on.  
  
"Blackgate officials don't follow up?" she asked, hoping they were safe from searches and raids.  
  
"They know enough about who is behind the operation not to get involved. They're not Arkham; they're not trying to help people. They just want to keep their government funding to keep their jobs and go about their business. If one or two criminals manage to swim back to Gotham every month, well, that's no longer their business I guess is how they see it." He moved to the side to let her follow the Joker directly as he closed and locked the heavy rusting doors behind them, encasing them in darkness.   
  
Flipping a series of light switches Harley was awed to discover the men were relying heavily on dozens of string lights that came in a variety of novelty shapes; from Halloween pumpkins, Christmas lights to American flags and Tiki faces they were strung everywhere.   
  
"Festive," the Joker remarked humorlessly, trudging on wearily.   
  
Amazed, Harley looked around with childish glee, realizing that the warehouse was once used for costumes, toys and other novelties once upon a time. Boxes and boxes were piled up along the walls, items spilling out everywhere, metal racks of moth eaten costumes growing dusty with neglect in every corner. Old paper masks hung on fishing wires from the exposed pipes that hung from the ceiling. Two couches covered in a dirty sheet were in the middle of the large warehouse, a table between them with several newspapers dating from three months ago strewn about.   
  
Annoyed, the Joker gave a sharp, high pitch whistle and three men emerged; one raised up from the second couch, obviously having been asleep, another came out from the shadows where Harley could not tell led and another man came out from a door. They all looked genuinely pleased to see their boss.  
  
"Way to make a crime boss feel welcomed in his own home," the Joker said sarcastically. The trio began to protest in unison, swearing up and down they were sorry, and truly immensely happy to see him safe and sound out of Arkham.  
  
"We knew you'd get out sometime," said the youngest.  
  
"We were just about to start cleaning up," added another, a burly man with a bald head.   
  
"We just...kind of fell asleep," said the third, a tall strapping dark haired man.   
  
They stared at their boss, shame and nerves washing over their faces. The young guy finally perked up and held up an empty red spray can.  
"But we've been busy doing what you told us to do in case you were caught!"  
  
"So it was you," Harley giggled, sidling up to the Joker, who remained impassive. The three men finally took notice of Harley, shock registering on their faces. Joker did not notice so Zigs stepped forward to make introductions.  
  
"This is Harley Quinn, guys. She's with us now. Harley, this is Roach, Marx and Arbuckle."  
  
"What the fuck?" cried the young thug called Roach. "You're locked away for three months and get to walk away with a fine piece of ass. I'm free as a bird and I get nothing!"  
  
This put a slight grin on the Joker's tired face. He squeezed Harley's waist tightly. Harley stuck out her tongue.  
  
"I'm not just a piece of ass, you know, I'm also a psychiatrist!"  
  
Stunned by her for the second time in less than two minutes, the men looked at each other wide eyed with curiosity that slowly turned into lewd, knowing looks.   
  
"You're sick, boss," said the handsomely tall man, Marx, with a polite laugh.  
  
"I'm going upstairs," said the Joker at last, pulling Harley with him as he took only one bag and silently trudged up a metal staircase and into a small square loft once used as an office for the overseer of the warehouse. "Unpack everything I brought and have this place up and running by the time I get up."  
  
The three henchmen looked at Zigs for help, waiting until the door upstairs closed behind their boss before bombarding Zigs with questions.  
  
"Why is  _she_  here?"  
  
"Please tell me he is going to kill her."  
  
"Do the cops know he has her?"  
  
"She's nuttier than him! What are we going to do?"  
  
"Calm down, fella's," said Zigs, ever the peacekeeper. "She helped him bust out of Arkham and has already proven her alliance to Joker. I don't know what he has planned for her but I would just make the extra effort to keep out of her business and just stay on task."  
  
The three men remained unconvinced but went back on task as Zigs advised.  


* * *

  
Dropping his bag as exhaustion from the last forty-eight hours finally hit him, the Joker collapsed onto his bed and turning away from Harley, he fell asleep instantly. Harley gently placed her overnight bag down and straightened his. She was tired but too excited to sleep quite yet. After removing her Mister J's shoes and pulling the blanket up to his chin Harley turned her attention to unpacking their things.   
  
He had no other piece of furniture other than the futon bed he slept on but made a space on the opposite wall to keep his clothes, folded and smoothed down with care. Unpacking her own clothes, she discovered he had packed very little for her. Just another task to improvise on. She then lovingly laid his knives out right beside his bed, each point against the wall.   
When she was satisfied with her work Harley was able to finally pay attention to the room itself. The floor was littered was tubes and containers of black, red and white face paint, some half used, some empty and others unused; she organized them by color in the spare corner where broken shards of a small mirror remained. Gathering each sliver in her hand she placed them in the empty containers, making a trash heap to be emptied when she could get her hands on a bag or bin.   
  
There was a window that overlooked the main room of the warehouse below but it was covered with aluminum foil and the only light in the room was the artificial orange glow of three strings of jack-o-lantern lights hung on the wall above the futon. A newspaper from February was under the bed, several pens and pencils rigidly stuck in the headline;  _WHO IS THE BATMAN?_  Peeking under the bed, Harley could see an array of sharp objects, some socks and a shirt but dared not pull anything out least she get stuck.   
  
Her curiosity sated, Harley removed her bra and pants before sneaking into bed, sitting up next to his curled, slumbering figure. He did not stir, even as she brushed away his hair from his face and kissed his ear. With his black make up around his eyes he looked like he had hollowed out sockets, an eerie sight for anyone but Harley, who found the effect endearing. Observing him as he slept she was struck with the image of a troubled little boy, helpless, misunderstood and in desperate need for someone to take care of him.   
  
Harley knew she was just that person; whether he knew it or not, Harley understood she was meant to be at is side, to love him because no one else had bothered, casting him aside and leaving her poor Mister J branded as criminally insane, locked away to be forgotten or hunted down.   
  
_It isn't fair_ , thought Harley, protectively wrapping her arms around him as she slid down onto the bed and laid her head against his chest, listening to his heart. Why should the world pick on the one man she loved above everyone else, even herself? Why couldn't they just take the joke?   
  
_I will love you,_  thought Harley decidedly. _I will throw my entire being into everything you tell me to do, even if I don't understand why. I will protect you, even if you think you don't need me. Even if..._  Harley closed her eyes. She didn't want to entertain the thought any longer; but she couldn't help the small, inner voice of Harleen warning her.  _Even if you never truly love me back.  
_  
_No,_  Harley insisted, squashing Harleen.  _No, he will love me. It might take some time but he'll see. He needs someone to look after him, and once he realizes it's me always at his side...that's when he'll realize he's loved me all along.  
  
_ Happy with this train of thought, the protective, obsessive love warming her body, Harley soon fell asleep, tightly wrapped around the man she gave up everything for.

* * *

  
  
"This isn't like him." Batman handed the file back to Gordon.  
  
Shaking his head with a weary sigh Gordon replied, "I thought the thing about the Joker was his unpredictability. Even you said it's never that simple. But there it is."  
  
"Something's wrong."  
  
"DNA doesn't lie," Gordon spat, his temper rising, not meaning to aim his frustration at Batman but at the situation in general. "The DNA extracted from the blood and semen found in Dr. Quinzel's bed is a dead ringer, not mention  _her_  DNA was found, too. And his fingerprints were positively everywhere."  
  
Batman wasn't convinced. The Joker a mere rapist? That just didn't add up; that wasn't part of the psychosis he saw within the Joker. It seemed... _beneath_ the Joker. Too low on the ladder of crime; not big enough. He was willing to admit that maybe there was some bigger picture to it all and a lowly rape crime was somehow just a small piece of the puzzle...or build up to the joke, as he would have it, thought Batman bitterly.   
  
"I'm going to talk with Jonathan Crane."  
  
"Don't," said Batman in a voice he meant to be more of a command than the plea it really sounded like.  
  
"I have no choice; he knows something and he can see something I can't."  
  
"Of course he can; he's a psychopath just like the Joker. Anything he tells you will only be exchanged for something he can use."  
  
"I know that," Gordon regretfully admitted.   
  
"You're feeling guilty for Dr. Quinzel's kidnapping; you can't-"  
  
"I'm feeling guilty for a lot of things!" Gordon shouted aggressively. "For everything the Joker has done over these passed months; from the innocent lives of colleagues and friends to the utter ruin of good men like Harvey and you. Officers are being terrorized, some have quit the force completely, others transferred; I'm at my wits end. I'm having phone calls made out to New York and Metropolis to see if they can spare any extra hands...it makes me look like a beggar but I don't care; anything to get this bastard off the streets and back into Arkham. If I want to seek out the advice of another madman I have that right because frankly...other than your assistance...it's really all that's left to be done."  
  
Batman stood in silence, contemplating his response. Gordon was nearly a broken man; if he argued against his choice once more he would endanger their relationship. Frankly, Batman was surprised Gordon was still able to function after everything he had gone through. A determined man like Jim Gordon ought to be supported and trusted like always.  
  
"I don't agree with it, but I won't argue it anymore. Just be careful."  
  
"I will," the Commissioner promised with a solemn nod. It was he who walked away first.

* * *

  
  
Hours later, Roach watched Harley come down the metal staircase in short shorts and a tank top, her blonde hair in pigtails. He was trying to concentrate on the morning paper, scouring the latest article on the Joker's escape. It turned out to be more of an editorial due to the lack of facts and leads and the unresponsive Gotham police department. Roach was impressed to read that several dozen Gothamites decided to extend their summer vacations out of the city - some being quoted to say indefinitely or until the Joker was recaptured.  
  
"Any chance I might find some food here?" Harley asked cheerfully, leaning on the backside of the couch, the top of her breasts innocently displayed for Roach's hard up viewing pleasure.  
  
"Sure...uh..." He pointed towards the adjacent office. "There's a kitchenette thingie."  
  
"Thanks," replied Harley with a wink, taking a playful swipe at Roach's nose. Entering the office Harley saw a kitchenette wedged into the far right hand side corner with a small fridge, stained microwave and an electric camp burner set on the tiny counter. Zigs stood at the counter, opening a can of SPAM.  
  
"Musubi?"  
  
"What?" Harley giggled.  
  
"Sit down, I'll make you our staple meal."  
  
Harley sat on the paint splattered stool, the only seat in the kitchenette. The office portion of the room looked like hurricane Joker had hit it months ago with several maps of Gotham tacked haphazardly on the wall, overlapping one another, various locales marked with notes in red Sharpie, saying things like "KABOOM!" or "oink oink oink" or "DIE DIE DIE DIE."  
Watching Zigs slice the spam and lay them out on a frying pan Harley was disheartened to think that this was all there was to eat - other than of course the sugary cereal, which they also kept in abundance on the top of the refrigerator. Harley would have to fix this. She wasn't much of a cook but she would learn for her Mister J. Yes; she would be the best cook ever.  
  
"How long have you known Mister J?" she asked.   
  
"Oh, longer than anyone else here...about a year and some change."  
  
"Before...?" Harley brushed her left cheek with the back of her hand.   
  
"No, no, no, no," Zigs answered, shaking his head. "But pretty soon after I imagine." He shuddered. "I remember when I first met him I could make out those nasty stitches he used to sew himself up. Gnarly."   
  
"Did he tell you how it happened?"  
  
"No, ma'am," Zigs laughed, turning over the spam. "I'm not curious, either. I think that may be part of the reason why I ain't dead yet; I just could not care less about it and I think he knows I'm for real about it. The others," Zigs shook his head disapprovingly. "They act like they all cool and don't care, but I know. More importantly, _J-man_ knows. Those kinds of guys, the curious ones? They don't last too long." He shrugged. "I've seen a lot of fucked up shit in my life, so whatever happened to him was just another fucked up day in Gotham. That's all."  
  
Harley felt special for knowing the story behind the scars, but respected Zigs for admitting indifference. Indifference was foreign to her; life mostly kept her in whirlwind of curiosity and high strung emotions.  
  
"Anyway," said Zigs, transferring the freshly fried spam pieces to a paper towel to absorb the grease. "One day he just showed up. Asked me if I wanted a better job with bigger responsibility. At the time it was super low-key, real small. We would build our way up to a bigger  _spectacle_ , his word. I asked him why me?" Zigs took out a package of instant rice and placed it in the grossly stained microwave. "I was just a bottom rung lackey then, one of the only brothers on Falcone's payroll. I tried out for Gambol's game, but that douche bag said I wasn't thug enough." Zigs laughed. "I'm five feet seven inches, a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. I'm a quiet sort and don't give a damn about posturing and strutting around like a damn rooster. I don't wave guns and threats at anyone who looks at me funny. So there was no way I was ever gonna be _thug_ enough for that mother fucker. Anyway. I asked this guy, this Joker, why me? He said...and I will never forget it...that he had been watching me for a while and he liked my artistic style. Listen. I have no delusions over how I earn my income. I'm not Jonathan Crane, thinking I'm doing the world any favors through petty larceny, grand theft auto, and shooting with intent to kill. I am a criminal. I know it. And I never heard _crime_  described that way before...he intrigued me, I guess you could say. I also don't know how he'd been able to watch me without being in the Falcone operation, but I would've known him if he was, and I didn't. So whoever he was before he was the Joker, he was damn good at whatever he did." The microwave beeped and Zigs added the spam to the plated rice, then took a crusty bottle of soy sauce out of the nearly empty fridge and splashed some on the concoction before placing it under Harley's wrinkling nose. "And that's all there is to it."  


* * *

  
Jonathan Crane sat up eagerly as the Commissioner came in view.  
  
"A repeat customer!" he cried happily from his crossed legged position on his neatly made bed. "In record turn around time, no less."  
  
"Can it, Crane!" snapped Detective Stephens, who insisted on accompanying Jim down to Arkham, hoping to talk him out of this insane bargain with the devil.  
  
"I knew you would be back," said Crane snobbishly, ignoring Stephens. "What happened now?"  
  
"The Joker killed...no, he mutilated two of my men and kidnapped his psychiatrist."  
  
"Dr. Quinzel?" said Crane, intrigued. Rolling his eyes with a smarmy smile he added, "I  _told_  Dr. Leland not to assign some novice to the Joker but does anyone ever listen to me?"  
  
"Why should they?" Stephens scoffed. "You're on the other side of the glass now."  
  
Clearly displeased with this remark, Crane sneered. "No reason to get snippy with me;  _I_  am not the mass murdering clown picking off your chums, Detective."  
  
"No," replied Stephens coolly. "You're the insane doctor who used his own patients as guinea pigs for a lethal toxin."  
  
"I'm the  _insane doctor_  who is going to help you catch the so-called clown prince of crime."  
  
"How?" asked Gordon.  
  
"Takes one to know one, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"I wouldn't know."  
  
"Not you personally, no, but your friend who lurks in the shadows? The. Bat. Man?" Crane nodded, his righteous smirk widening across his handsome face. "From one guy dressing up in a funny costume running amok across the city to another, he should be the one helping you catch the Joker."  
  
"He's a wanted man as well," muttered Gordon.   
  
"Well if it's any comfort you have the better man for the job right here in front of you."  
  
"Yeah," Gordon replied, refusing to look at Crane as the madman basked in his own ego. "Your help in exchange for your freedom is out of the question, but I assume you want some sort of compensation for the duration of your assistance?"   
  
Stretching his arms out and above his head, Jonathan Crane couldn't contain his delighted smile. "I am  _so_  glad you asked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I was conversing with one of my beloved readers how much we love the black henchman from The Dark Knight, seen in the Gambol scene of the movie - a man clearly enjoying his job. I decided to bring this guy back as Zigs because I loved him so much. Other henchmen are: Roach the young guy (named after silent film comedy producer Hal Roach), Arbuckle the burly bald guy (named after the poor sod Roscoe Fatty Arbuckle who was framed by the studios in the 1920s) and Marx, the pretty boy "straight man" is named from Zeppo Marx of the Marx brothers who had the "straight man" role often. Yes, I do know my early film history VERY well.  
> \- Apologies for the shitty Batman portrayal.  
> \- Getting into Harley's mind now and beginning to see the starts of the Harley we know and love - the zippy, whacky fun loving gun totin' Joker lovin' nutcase.  
> \- Zigs story is purely about him; I don't pretend to know anything about the Joker's origins and I do not mean to allude he was part of a crime family before being the Joker - although he had to have some crime knowledge because fuckers aren't born knowing how to keep 20 steps ahead of everybody else without some experience. I do theorize that the Joker's scars are NOT from his childhood but were probably around 1-4 years prior to The Dark Knight. My original beta of this fanfic is actual a medical examiner and wrote a huge post on Livejournal about the Joker's scars from a medical standpoint. She served as my advisor for this fanfic.  
> \- For whatever reasons in my life I have been inside warehouses so I have this mental image of the office turned loft but if you have ever seen the movie Adventures in Babysitting you can kind of get an idea of what I described. Sans the car theft ring and Elizabeth Shue.  
> \- The map I am using for Gotham is the No Man's Land map. You can find it on the Wiki page for Gotham City


	7. Eight of Diamonds: Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom." - Marilyn Ferguson

The Joker didn't dream in moving picture sequences; no elaborate plots inspiring him in the land of Nod. When the Joker dreamed, he saw colors swirling around, those electrical impulses he merely felt during his waking hours he now saw with his mind's eye. He also heard things as he slept: voices of agony and madness. It was like soothing lullabies to a demented infant. Only this time the last voice he heard screaming in horrific pain and suffering was his own. Startling himself awake to a sitting position, the Joker looked around wildly, his heart palpitating as he tried to remember where he was.  
  
"Harley?" he snapped, looking around the bleak room, his eyes adjusting to the dim orange glow of the pumpkin lights above him. "Harley? Damn it!" Pushing his forehead against his hands, taking deep breaths as he unconsciously sucked on his bottom lip, he did not hear the eager steps running up the metal stairs outside the loft.  
  
As if summoned by his agitated state, Harley bounded into the room, performed a cartwheel in front of his bed and landed with a splits, her arms raised proudly above her head.  
  
"Ta da!" she cried. "Lookit me, Mister J! Dig the new digs?" She was wearing a black and red harlequin unitard with alternating colors diamond patters on the legs and arms. Unfortunately, the Joker was far too annoyed with her to praise the clever outfit.   
  
"Where were you!" he growled menacingly.  
  
Faltering, Harley frowned and replied, "In the warehouse. I woke up about two hours ago, had some food and went hunting for a new outfit. Dontcha like it? Look, I even put my hair up the way you like." She shook her head playfully, the dangling little blonde braids smacking her lightly on the cheeks. Pulling her onto the bed the Joker roughly pinned her on her back and held her wrists tightly in his fists as he straddled her.  
  
"When I put you someplace I expect you to be there until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth Harley-girl?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir," Harley stuttered, fright and excitement mingling together.   
  
"Good."   
  
Releasing her wrists Harley was able to study him as he sat back, staring off into space, his anger instantly forgotten. Placing her slender fingers on his chest she was shocked to discover it was soaked through with sweat.  
  
"Are you all right?" she cried, pushing herself up as best she could with his weight on her thighs. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders to keep herself upright, placing her other hand flat on his sweat slicked abdomen, beginning to unbutton his shirt. He brushed her hand aside.  
  
"Never mind." Lost in his thoughts the Joker ran a hand through his hair before he finally took notice of Harley staring at him with those worried baby blue eyes, her sympathy and concern for him written all over her face. He would have been touched if he could understand the anguish she was feeling for him, but it was starkly incomprehensible for him to know what kind of emotions drove that kind of expression of unconditional love for another living creature. The best he could do was feign it as he cupped her little heart shaped face in his hands and stared at her with all of the intensity of his gaze.   
  
Impressed she could hold up against his stare with her expression never once wavering or shifting to horror or fear the Joker slowly began to grin. Her own bubblegum pink lips followed his example, a sweet female mirror of his own twisted smile. Flinging his arms around her, he violently pulled her against his chest, his arms tightly wound around her head and shoulders.  
  
"You're mine," he growled possessively in her ear.   
  
"Yes," promised Harley, closing her eyes.  _See,_ she told herself.  _He does love me._    
  
When the sickness of being so close to someone finally got the better of him and his brain shifted gears, the Joker coldly let Harley go and stood up to leave. There was much to be done and not much time before Batman might sniff them out. His hand on the door knob, the Joker turned slightly, briefly flicking his gaze at Harley.  
  
"Change into something different. We wouldn't want you to wreck your outfit before you've had an opportunity to show it off."  
  


* * *

  
Jonathan Crane savored the last button, relishing each little expensive detail of the finely crafted material.  
  
"A  _suit_?" repeated Dr. Leland, watching Jonathan run his hands over the charcoal gray jacket of his brand new designer suit.   
  
"That's what he wanted," answered Detective Stephens, just as flabbergasted as Joan Leland. "Said orange wasn't his color."  
  
"I have to confess that I am a little more than concerned about Jonathan's involvement in this case."  
  
"You and me both, doc, but Gordon is determined to use every resource he can get before Joker destroys the city and takes us all halfway to hell with it."   
  
Jonathan lifted his right pant leg to examine the tight black box strapped to his ankle. The inmates around him seemed fascinated by the device as they leaned in inquisitively for a closer look. Dr. Leland raised her brows at Stephens.  
  
"And the ankle monitor, detective?"  
  
"He wants to visit the crime scenes for analytical purposes." Stephens shrugged. "He studied the crime pics from Dr. Quinzel's apartment for a good half hour and wanted to compare between there and here. I think he's just a nutball, but that device will alert us if he tries to go out of the designated range. Hell, he can't even go that far on the inside of this place wearing that thing. Plus he knows he'll have a guard on him at all times."  
  
"Seems a little redundant then, doesn't it?"  
  
"We're not taking any chances." His cell phone beeped, indicating a text message. After he read it, Stephens sighed and looked even more defeated.  
"This is just getting weirder by the second."  
  
"What's the matter?" asked Dr. Leland.  
  
"We ran a check on Dr. Quinzel to see if there's been any traceable activity, but my guy here just text to say that Dr. Quinzel closed her credit cards account weeks before the Joker broke out. We found fragments of her cell phone around the apartment, which would explain why no one was able to get through to it, except the detective also says that she cancelled that account, too. Not to mention her car hasn't been seen in her apartment building parking garage since Saturday night and here it is Thursday afternoon." Stephens groaned. "None of this shit is making sense. When did you say she last came into work?"  
  
"Tuesday, the same day the Joker broke out."  
  
"Then how the hell did she get here and back," grumbled Stephens. "She carpool with anyone here?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Does she have a boyfriend you know of? A relative? Friends in town?"  
  
"She never mentioned anything of the kind. She was here for the better part of her days, Detective. Working a demanding full time job doesn't leave much time for a social life."  
  
"I know the feeling," he muttered under his breath. "Did she have a session with the Joker the day he escaped?"  
  
"Yes, she'd been having sessions with him daily for about a month or so now."  
  
"What time did she normally leave?"  
  
Dr. Leland had answered these questions Wednesday morning, but did not mind repeating herself. Anything to find Harleen. "Early evening. Five or six o'clock."  
  
"Was she his doctor too?" Stephens nodded towards Jonathan Crane, who was showing off his suit to the two nurses at the station.   
  
"No; their connection with Gotham State University and the psychology department is too closely related that Drs. Arkham, Bartholomew and I did not feel it was in either one of their best interest."  
  
"Hmm," replied Stephens in deep thought, eyeing Crane. "Hey, Crane!"  
  
Jonathan snapped his attention to the abrasive detective. "I'll ask you kindly to please refer to me as  _Dr._ Crane, even Mr. Crane or Jonathan if you must. Barking my last name without the customary title is just not in good manners."  
  
"Jonathan Crane, Ichabod Crane, I don't give a damn."  
  
At the mention of the Washington Irving character that gave way to the years to endless childhood torment, Jonathan began to shake. The nurse closest to him held onto his wrist.  
  
"Jonathan," she said sternly but not unkindly. "Don't."  
  
Stephens glared at the mad doctor, watching him as he quaked with rage, the blood flushing his pale face then closed his eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, stopped trembling, returned to his normal color and smiled brightly as if nothing had happened.  
  
"How can I help you, detective Stephens?"  
  
"I want to talk to you about Dr. Quinzel for a minute."  
  
They sat opposite of each other at a table at the furthest corner in the common room. Stephens didn't trust Crane enough to speak with him privately but knew he wouldn't cooperate if he was shackled.  
  
"Did you know Dr. Quinzel before your incarceration?"  
  
"We were introduced once at a party thrown by the head of the psychology department about two and a half years ago. I shook her hand, she seemed nice. A little blonde for my liking; I didn't think she was going to get far as she did. She struck me as the pop psychologist type."  
  
"Pop psychologist?" repeated Stephens, looking up from his notes.  
  
"You know, those Dr. Laura, Dr. Phil types...arrogant bubble brain ninnies who prefer the pez dispenser approach to therapy that's really no more than a sensationalized Dear Abby advice column...except ten times more obnoxious as pop shrinks tend to get rich quick on their half-assed advice."  
  
"You got that from Dr. Quinzel all in one handshake?" asked Stephens, mildly impressed despite himself.  
  
"I'm an excellent judge of character."  
  
"Uh-huh." Stephens wasn't going to touch that statement with a ten foot pole.  
  
"Plus, she was probably having an affair with the department head."  
  
"What?" Stephens hissed. "You know that for a  _fact, Mr_. Crane?"  
  
"No, of course not... but the more he drank that night, the more obvious his hand on her backside became. It may have been the drink, but she didn't seem to mind in the least and he has at least thirty years on her. Not too many cute little co-eds going to let you play grab ass this day and age unless they're willing partners."  
  
"Well, that's irrelevant," said Stephens dismissively. Idle gossip was not part of the fact gathering process. What Dr. Quinzel did back then was her own business.   
  
"It wasn't until I found out her thesis relied heavily on me and my...  _escapades_  that she was brought to my attention once more." Crane paused for a minute, smiling to himself. "I'd really like to get my hands on it sometime, you know. I heard it was initially not well received..."  
  
"Seems like you'd be the kind of guy a good paper could be written about," said Stephens, meaning it insultingly but knowing Crane would take the bait as flattery. He did, with a proud beam.  
  
"Yes, I think so. I guess the dissertation included some very wild theories that turned a lot of heads and provoked jeers. Speaking from the point of view of already having that experience at Gotham State, you can imagine how I sympathized with the dear girl."  
  
Stephens couldn't imagine this madman being able to sympathize with anyone.   
  
"I wasn't as surprised as the staff when word got around that she wanted to intern here at Arkham. Her grades were impeccable, Dr. Leland told me. They were just a little superstitious to hire out from Gotham U again... as you can plainly see why." He made an elegant gesture towards himself. "But of course it's foolish to project their feelings for me on a new graduate." He seemed lost in thoughts for a moment, a soft grin on his face as he withheld his thoughts from Stephens.   
  
"Almost seems like you're not even a patient here at all," commented the detective carefully. "The doctors here still converse with you, share their thoughts and opinions... nurses fawn over you as if you were still their boss...only the other inmates avoid you."  
  
"Yes," admitted Crane curtly. "I've never really been very good with my peers, no matter what my position in my life has been. When I was a student, the other students hated me... they were jealous, of course."  
_  
Of course,_  thought Stephens with a mental eye roll.  
  
"When I was a professor, the faculty hated me. Again, they were envious because they knew I wouldn't be stuck there forever; I was merely in the stages of perfecting my experiments. And when I moved onto Arkham... well, there was no jealousy from my colleagues but a certain contempt for the leadership abilities that I possessed."   
  
"But the patients always hated you, right?"  
  
Jonathan looked away, disgruntled. Inwardly, Stephens was pleased that he got the mad doctor to finally shut up, but he knew they had only scratched the surface.  
  
"Why do you think the Joker kidnapped his doctor? You think he hates her for trying to help him?"  
  
"He doesn't see her as trying to help him," answered Crane coldly, shoving his hands tightly in his lap and continuing to keep his head turned, eyes averted to the floor. "Arkham is just a hindrance; a road block in his way. Anyone who is arrogant enough to believe that they can help someone like him is destined to either die at his hands or wash theirs from him out of frustration. The ego that goes into psychology, the complete  _audacity_  that someone has thinking they can  _cure_  someone of who they really are...well, they're just looking for trouble when they come across people like the Joker."  
  
Stephens stared at the man in front of him, his pen long ceased from jotting down notes. He knew that Crane wasn't just talking about the Joker anymore.   
  
"Didn't you study psychology?" asked Stephens. "You didn't want to help people?"  
  
"My specialty is fear, detective. I wanted people to  _embrace_  themselves and learn how to lord over their fears."   
  
"By gassing them with a fear toxin that made them hallucinate their phobias? Seems like you're the one more interested in lording over other people's fears."  
  
"Well, I had to do research," Crane said as if he had to state the obvious. "As for why the Joker kidnapped Dr. Quinzel," Crane went on after his pause. "He's punishing her, making her see the error of her ways."  
  
"The error of helping him?"  
  
"Of thinking she could."  
  
Stephens could feel not just the angry cop rising in him, but the basic human need to protect others; if he talked anymore to this lunatic he would do something he regretted and probably wouldn't be so lucky to get away with it this time. Closing his pocket notepad, Stephens stood up and curtly thanked Crane for his time.  
  
Jonathan watched the detective talk briefly with Dr. Leland before exiting the common room. He was the last of the police officials to finally leave Arkham. Leaning back in his chair, Jonathan smiled to himself.  
_  
Time to do a little investigating of my own._  
  
  


* * *

  
The boys, as Harley referred to them, were flocked around their boss as he explained various points of their latest exploits. Joker had a large drawing tablet on his lap as he sat cross-legged on one of the couches, fervently sketching out his thoughts. Some invariably turned to doodles that typically ended in comic bubbles with words like  **"HELP ME!"**  or  **"DIE!"**  or  **"HA HA HA HA** " scribbled in them.   
  
A television on a wheeled side table was rolled in and tuned in to the news. GCN had "updates" every thirty minutes, replaying the coverage from three months ago, interviewing so-called experts of the criminal mind. Joker ignored it for the most part, only interested in actual new news.   
  
Harley was given the task to keep out of their way. She was told to stay inside but make herself useful. Impulsively, she began to clean the warehouse, sorting through the forgotten novelty products and costumes. When she had successfully sorted items and organized them by type she was inspired to continue on with decorating the rest of the warehouse, particularly the Joker's loft. The Joker meanwhile looked up from his sketches and stared at the four faces around him.  
  
"We need to reach the citizens of Gotham on a mass communication level. Everyone at the same time."  
  
The men looked from one another; they were all the Joker had at his disposal at the moment. The project he was proposing was too big for just the five of them. Six, if he meant to include the little vixen.   
  
"We'll need extra hands," said Marx evenly, ever the realist.  
  
"Fine," replied the Joker, hunching over his tablet.   
  
"How much to entice?" asked Marx, who handled the money of the operation. The Joker was unable to dole out cash himself, having no sense of value for it. He would give some street thug five g's up front for a simple act of larceny with the promise of more - just shut the fuck up and do the job. When he discovered the unsavory greed in most all of his hired help, he began to kill them as soon as their usefulness was at an immediate end, instead of waiting for boredom or just piss him off. That could take weeks. How dare they be in it for the money and not the glory of power and chaos?  
  
"I'm not good with figures," grumbled the Joker, annoyed he had to think out everything on his own. "Enough to keep them interested in continuing but not so much they'll take the introduction rate and run."  
  
"And the Arkhamites?" asked Roach.   
  
"A box of crackerjacks and shiny nickel; they're easy to please."  
  
"Can... _you_  talk to them instead?" asked Roach with clear discomfort. "I just, uh, never seem to get through to them."  
  
"Are you implying that I have some sort of  _flair_  for conversing with lunatics, Roach?"  
  
Marx, Zigs and Arbuckle looked up at their young colleague, praying he didn't take the bait. Roach stared agape at his boss, still not used to seeing him sans make-up...those dark sunken eyes burning maliciously at him...that disembodied deep voice coming from an actual face, not just a mask.  
  
"No?" Roach squeaked, swallowing hard.  
  
"They'll find me on their own," said Joker calmly, not finding it worthy of his energy to pick on Roach. He knew now to watch his mouth.  
  
A high pitch squeal of delight interrupted their conversation as Harley glided out of the shadows with roller skates on her feet and a big box of colored ostrich plume feathers. Expertly stopping directly behind the Joker, she giggled an apology and put down the box to whisper something in his ear. A wicked grin spread across his face as he quietly took out his butterfly knife and handed it to Harley before cupping her face and giving her a winning smile.  
  
"Now be a good girl and leave us alone."  
  
Marx watched with distrustful eyes as the blonde roller bimbo skated into the office with the box of plumes and butterfly knife. The Joker caught the stare but said nothing. Marx was aptly named; the straight man of their little gang. His distrust was to be expected. He had just better not question the authority.  
  
Straightening up and flexing, the Joker asked, "Now who's been running the show since I've been away?"   
  
"Not one person in particular," said Arbuckle, the main muscle and informant. "It was kind of crazy after you got caught 'cause people were first scared that the Batman was gonna come after them. Then when word got out how many so-called good guys Batman killed, including Harvey Dent-"  
  
"What?" howled the Joker merrily. "Batman is taking the fall for that cover up? How disgustingly noble of him."  
  
"Yeah. And every cop in town is supposedly hunting him down. For real this time. No more bat light in the sky, either."  
  
"The boys in blue really know how to put on a good show," said the Joker sarcastically. "No. They're still in cahoots with Batman, I know it. Has he disappeared from Gotham?"  
  
"No, he hasn't. He left everyone alone for a little while, a couple of weeks, but once competition for the new head crime boss started to heat up Batman came swooping back to make sure no one ever fully made it to the top."  
  
"And so everyone is still fighting like rabid dogs to see who gets to piss on the money tree first," the Joker finished for his accomplice. "Hm. Interesting." Folding his arms across his chest the Joker thought hard for a moment before an idea came to him. "Find out who the current alpha male is and where he regularly patronizes so that we can pay him a visit. These animals need to be reminded just exactly who this city  _really_ belongs to." 

* * *

  
  
"Are you some sort of psychic detective now?" asked the jovial middle aged guard with Jonathan as he walked around the Joker's empty cell later that afternoon. The GCPD had taken pictures, dusted for prints and done all they could do. It was up to him, Jonathan Crane, to look deeper at the situation.   
  
"No, not psychic, just psychotic," replied Jonathan pensively, tapping his fingers on his chin. "What did that oaf say about Joker's Arkham clothes?"  
  
"Just that they were covered in blood. Oh, yeah...they found a slit at the bottom of one of his shoes...like a pocket where he may have kept something."  
_  
Like a pass key,_  thought Crane, shaking his head.  _He couldn't have stolen it...someone would have reported it missing and all of the codes would have changed for preventative measures._ Jonathan knew this to be true from when he was an employee rather than inmate.  _Which means someone made it for him._  
  
"All right, I'm done here. Let's go see Dr. Quinzel's office."  
  
"I don't think your tracking device allows you to go that far in the building."  
  
"Not the office Dr. Quinzel used to hold her sessions; the one Dr. Leland stuck her with down here, in the old section. For her files."  
  
The guard shifted uncomfortably. He had been used to taking orders from Jonathan Crane when he was Dr. Crane; it was difficult not to follow his lead. Now he was an inmate but he still sounded the same; charming, self-assured, intelligent. A leader.   
  
"I'll only be a moment," said Crane with a reassuring smile. "We want to find Dr. Quinzel before the Joker kills her, right? Maybe we'll find something in her office that can help Commissioner Gordon track them down."  
  
It was the 'we' part that convinced the guard to let Dr. Crane take the lead. It somehow made him feel more important.   
  
Resisting the urge to shake his head in dismay, Jonathan Crane thought to himself,  _Classic fear of failure, not to mention fear of leadership. I wonder what other fears this sheep in guard's clothing is hiding._  
  
They strolled down the musty, dimly lit corridors and without having to count the unmarked doors, Jonathan entered the stuffy cramped office.  
"How'd you know which office was hers?" asked the guard.   
  
"Oh," Dr. Crane replied loftily, "Dr. Leland told me where to find it. I used to use this area for storage, actually. Some of these files are mine." He caressed the top of a dusty pile of boxes in front of him before going over to the battered desk and looking around.   
  
"This place gives me the creeps," muttered the guard unwisely.  
  
"Oh?" Dr. Crane softly replied, feigning disinterest. "What is it about the office in particular that gives you... _the creeps_?"  
  
"Just...it's stuffy in here."  
  
"Stuffy?" Crane airily repeated, noticing a crumbled piece of paper in a shadowed corner underneath the desk. Bending down, he plucked it up and placed it on the desk before getting up to explore the tall black filing cabinet against the wall behind the desk. He knelt down and opened the bottom drawer. "Or tight? Closed in?"  
  
"Yeah," gulped the guard. "That, too."  
  
Jonathan quietly removed the bottom of the cabinet, revealing a hidden compartment filled with vials, a wrist spritzer and one of his beloved masks.   
"You're a claustrophobic, then?" Crane mused lightly. "Not very unique but it'll do."  
  
"What'll do?" asked the guard before receiving a face full of fear toxin. Crying out in surprise, the guard stepped back only to crash into two ceiling high piles of boxes, losing his balance as he vainly attempted to wipe the noxious gas away.  
  
"I'd been waiting all of these months to get back down here," said Scarecrow nonchalantly through his rebreather burlap mask, a hangman's noose around his neck. "When I was apprehended by Batman four months ago, the police raided my very expensive loft, thinking they had confiscated every last bit of my precious toxin." He lovingly patted the wrist guard. "They never thought to scour Arkham beyond my office and lab." Looming over the guard, now in a fetal position dripping with sweat as he rasped for breath, Scarecrow tilted his head to the side. "Feel your chest tightening? The air slipping away from you in this cramp, musty room? The walls are closing in; you know...they're getting smaller by the second. Soon you won't have enough air to fill your lungs with and you will suffocate." Scarecrow watched the man tremble, soaked in cold sweat as he began to hyperventilate.  
  
"Stop talking!" the guard screamed. "You're using up all of the air!"  
  
"No, you are. Oh, look. There's no room to move now."  
  
The guard saw walls closing in on him as he tightened his knees against his chest and curled his head down further, desperately gasping for air. Soon he was reduced to abrupt, shallow wheezes as his chest began to quicken...then slow... and finally stop.  
  
"There's no challenge with claustrophobics," said Scarecrow with dismay. "How boring."  
  
Turning his attention back to the crumpled paper, Jonathan took off the mask, sat at the desk and unfolded the yellow notepad paper, smoothing it out so he could read it. Written in smooth streaked hand writing was a bizarre shopping list. It listed a variety of beef, five kinds of sugary cereal and had a list of what not to buy; specifically underlined was  _ **no boxed mashed potatoes!**_  Confused, Scarecrow tried to figure out whom on earth would write this...and why would it be here? Did Dr. Quinzel have some psychotic, picky eating boyfriend? Then his memory suddenly flashed to the crime scene photos that he saw earlier. Chunks of raw meat scattered about the grisly crime scene at Dr. Quinzel's apartment.  
_Someone had to make him the pass key.  
  
Her accounts closed. Her car missing. _  
  
"Oh, my god..." Scarecrow breathed, amazed. "The sweet, defenseless doctor made him the pass key.  _She_  let him out! His own psychiatrist!" Tossing his head back and laughing his sickening high pitch peals, Scarecrow shredded the shopping list so that no one else would find it. "Wait 'til Harvey hears about this."

 

* * *

  
  
The first thing Marx had to do every morning was have a nice, long cigarette. He had been practicing this ritual since he was sixteen and now that the Joker was back in town, he stepped out for a cigarette more frequently, as he was doing right now at ten o'clock at night, knowing it could be his last.   
Finding Arbuckle had beaten him to the smoking haven, the space between their main warehouse and the one they used as a garage for their vehicles, Marx leaned against the metal siding next to his co-worker.  
  
"I don't like it," said Arbuckle at last.   
  
"The plan? Or her?"  
  
"Her. I couldn't care less about the plan, you know that."  
  
"Well, you are not alone in either sentiment," replied Marx, squinting his eyes as he looked up at the moon. "I don't know what kind of game he's playing with that whack job so-called shrink. All's I know is I got a bad feeling about it."  
  
"No shit," hissed Arbuckle, jabbing his thumb at his own chest. "And I'll be damned if I'm gonna start taking orders from her, too. I'm older than the rest of youse; I've seen what happens when a boss lets his mistress mingle with the hired help. She gets it in her head that its her gang too and starts barkin' orders at guys old enough to be her father-"  
  
"You're the only old fart with that honor around here, bro."  
  
"Or! Or else she screws one of the guys and it's lights out for everyone in a shower of bullets."  
  
"Fuck that. She's fine piece of ass, but I ain't touching her. I ain't even  _thinking_  about it, 'cause I don't want all of my major organs stuck with blades in alphabetically order."   
  
"Well, it's either her or us. That's what it's going to come down to, I guarantee you." Arbuckle took one last, long drag before flicking the butt away into the darkness.   
  
"Don't get your knickers in a wad, Arbuckle," said Marx through his cigarette, pressed between his lips. "It ain't gonna be her."  
  
"Excuse me if your statement fails to inspire me with confidence."  
  
"I'm serious! He'll get bored of her sooner or later or he'll use her to lure the Batman to us and she'll lose her head in the crossfire."   
  
"You better be right, Marxy. I mean... we got dibs on the Joker."  
  
After a deliciously long drag, Marx removed his cigarette and smirked down at his partner. "Dibs? How old are you, seven?"  
  
"You know what I mean. This is our racket, our boss, our job, our lives and there ain't no way some screwy little clown girl is gonna fuck it up for us."  
  


* * *

  
  
Harley wiggled eagerly on the bed as she heard Mister J's steps come up the metal staircase. It was the first time he would enter the room and see her handiwork. She had taken four metal garment racks from downstairs and placed them on the far wall so that their clothes were nicely hung up. All trash had been removed and she even uncovered a small color television which now sat in front of the bed, a vase filled with fake magician flowers sitting atop the set. Dissatisfied with only the pumpkin lights, Harley discovered the Joker's stash of joker cards and using a hole punch and fishing wire found in the office made several dozen joker card mobiles, dangling from the ceiling. It was festive, worthy of him now. She hoped, anyway.  
  
Trying not to be obvious about her anticipation, Harley's mood was soon deflated as the Joker blatantly ignored the changes around him, kicking off his shoes before sitting at the foot of his futon and turning on the television.   
  
"I found that downstairs," chirped Harley, hoping that would prompt him to notice the rest of the room. He merely waved a hand at her to be silent. Leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he idly played with his OTF cupid knife, the Joker watched the news. The channel in question was outside the MCU accosting Commissioner Gordon.  
  
"Commissioner Gordon, have you received any messages from the Joker? Do you know who his next target might be?"  
  
"No messages," said a haggard, sleep deprived Gordon.   
  
"In due time," replied the Joker softly.  
  
"Is it true that the Joker kidnapped his own doctor, Harleen Quinzel?"  
  
"Uh-oh," said Harley, but the Joker quickly shushed her.  
  
Gordon ignored them, pushing through their crew as he made for the steps.   
  
"Is it true that you've sought help from Jonathan Crane, also known as the notorious Scarecrow, the doctor turned madman who terrorized Gotham just over a year ago?"  
**_  
"What?!"_**  shouted the Joker, raising his knife into the air, crouching on the floor directly in front of the television.   
  
Gordon was caught off-guard with the question, eyed the camera angrily and hissed,  _"No comment."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcomed.  
> \- Yay for villains.  
> \- The Crow reference. See if you can find it.  
> \- I am not terribly familiar with how the fear toxin actually kills people other than giving them hallucinations that either drives them mad or to suicide. What I do know is that Crane does eventually hone the ability to scare people to death with his mere words, no drugs. This is YEARS down the line for Nolanverse Scarecrow but I thought about combining the two for the sake of the fic just to make it creepy. I hope it was creepy.  
> \- When I call Marx "the straight man" I am not talking about his sexuality; I am talking about the role of a comedic foil - "the straight man" is the person who is serious in a comedy, sometimes the butt of the joke, who remained stoic & serious yet surrounded by comedic chaos. Zeppo Marx was the straight man of The Marx Brothers.  
> \- It is actually a bit of a challenge for me not to domesticate Joker/Harley because of course I love that small aspect about them (it happens so rarely) so hopefully I am staying on task with the patterns of ups/downs they go through.


	8. Three of Clubs: Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Although our intellect always longs for clarity and certainty, our nature often finds uncertainty fascinating." - Carl von Clausewitz

Dr. Bartholomew was surprised to have his nightcap interrupted by a phone call from a very irate Jim Gordon.  
  
"Have you found Dr. Quinzel?" asked Bartholomew hopefully.  
  
"No, and thanks to someone on your staff, someone tipped off the media that we talked with Jonathan Crane."  
  
"Well, Jim, I don't know what to tell you...it certainly wasn't anyone on my team."  
  
"I didn't figure. You and the other doctors are going to have to have a serious crackdown in the staff, not to mention your security. Lives are at stake; confidentiality and security of are the utmost importance right now."  
  
"I understand, Commissioner." Dr. Bartholomew felt like a scolded child. It was probably the scotch. "I'll have a meeting tomorrow morning. Promise."  
  
"Thank you." Irritably, Gordon hung up.

* * *

  
  
"Does Crane actually see  _me_  as the enemy?" asked the Joker in a voice that suggested calm but truthfully quaked with boiling temper. The news held no interest for him now; it was only that one channel that had gotten hold of the rumor but the Joker knew...Jonathan Crane was trying to pull a fast one on him. Harley watched with trepidation as the Joker paced the loft, waving his hands maniacally in the air, as he vented his rage, OTF knife in hand. "What the hell kind of gag is he playing at, anyway?" He gestured to Harley. "Doesn't Crane know I'm doing this for him? For Harvey? For you?"  
  
Harley was touched, though she wasn't the least bit informed what he was talking about. "Well, what did he say when you told him about your plans, Puddin'?"  
_  
Did she just call me- wait._  
  
"Oh," the Joker stopped, dumbstruck. "I guess I failed to clue him in on the details..." He reeled on Harley. "But what should that matter anyway? That's no excuse for him to go brown nosing to Gordon."  
  
"If he doesn't know what you're up to, then why are you worried?" Harley asked, always somehow feeling like there was a piece of the jigsaw Mister J had hidden up his sleeve, leaving her on a continuous search to fill in the rest of the puzzle.   
  
Remaining silent, the Joker's pride did not want to admit to Harley that he knew Jonathan Crane was clever enough to figure out the ruse with the allegedly innocent psychiatrist. Folding himself into an Indian style position at the center of the bed, the Joker huffed, "He just better not spoil the surprise by beating me to the punch line."

Thinking this was the perfect opportunity to comfort her man, Harley kittenishly crawled over to the Joker, running her fingers through his hair and wrapping a slender bare leg across his lap.   
  
"Don't you worry 'bout that silly old Scarecrow, Mister J," she purred against his ear, oblivious to the murderous askance glare sent her way, furiously clicking the cupid knife in and out of its sheath. "Let me take care of you tonight."  
  
"All right," said the Joker pleasantly, tossing the knife aside, grabbing her firmly by the ankle and cruelly pulling her upwards and across his lap, her face smashed down against the mattress with his hand firmly against the back of her head. "You want to play whipping boy for Crane, Harley-girl?"  
  
"Wh-" Harley struggled to turn her head so that she could breath, wiggling enough for one nostril to find air. "Whatever you want."  
  
"Whatever I want? Fine. Have it your way." Shoving her off of his lap he got up, telling her to stay exactly as she was, and snapped off fifteen inches of the thin metal television antenna.  
Harley did not see this, only heard a defining snap noise and felt the bed sink as he returned, taking her in his lap from the hips down. When the sting of the first blow made contact with her backside Harley made the mistake of screaming in pain, and covering her bottom with her hands, tears instantly flowing from her big blue eyes.   
  
"Ah, ah," said the Joker reprimanding, delicately removing her pretty hands finger by finger. "You  _told_  me to do this." He brought the antenna down in rapid succession, each blow finding fresh beautiful skin to mar. Harley's body spasmed with every blow, but he continued to hold her against the mattress with his other hand firmly planted between her shoulder blades. Grateful to at least be able to breathe and cry, Harley found it lonely and unsatisfying to raise her head up, and only after she began to crumple downward, burying her face against the sheets was she able to get used to the strikes.   
  
When he tired of the antenna, the Joker tossed it aside and smacked his hand flat on her pert bottom, intensifying the pain. Moaning into the sheets as he roughly rubbed her raw backside, every inch searing with pain but also warming to the sensation of his touch, Harley gyrated her hips to follow the movement of his heavy hand.   
This was unacceptable to the Joker as he waited until her sounds pf pain turned solely into sounds of pleasure before picking up the broken antenna once again and lashing violently down upon the first set of wounds. Ablaze with a fresh set of pain, Harley screamed into the mattress beneath her as he beat her backside with an animalistic ferocity she previously thought impossible for him to turn on her. Every inch of her bottom burned, red and bleeding. Even the back of her thighs did not go unscathed. It was only when Harley went limp with silent, heaving sobs that he finally tired of this sport.  
  
"Are you my twisted little puppy, Harleykins?" Maniacally giggling the Joker leaned closer to her head, barking in a high pitch voice, snarling, and heavily panting in comical manner with a single satisfyingly resounding smack against Harley's backside. "Bad girl!" As she writhed in pain he shoved her off of his lap.   
"Now turn off the lights and go to bed. We have an extraordinarily busy day tomorrow." He removed his belt and shirt, and ignored the clothes rack in favor of tossing his items on the floor before settling in bed. Pretending to be appalled when Harley lay next to him, the Joker snapped, "What are you doing? Naughty dogs sleep at the foot of the bed. Go on before I get the chain and leash."  
  
"But, I -"  
  
"Are you arguing with me?" asked the Joker with his cockeyed stare, daring her to continue her protestation.   
  
"No," she replied quickly, shaking her head.   
  
"Then scat!"  
Crawling to the foot of the futon, Harley curled up as best as she could, resting her head on his feet, the raw marks on her bottom facing a very self-satisfied Joker.  
_Hopefully Mister J can relax now,_  thought Harley, ignoring the kick she received to the crown of her head as the Joker shifted under the covers. _It's so unhealthy to go to bed angry._    
  


* * *

  
  
Alone in at a corner table of the mess hall Friday morning, Two-Face tapped his feet impatiently on the floor, wanting to return to the quiet confines of his cell. He was surprised to see a nicely dressed lanky man suddenly standing before him, his long arms behind his back, and a pretentious smile on his face. At first Two-Face thought it was another stupid cop come to question him but he quickly realized it was not one of Gotham's finest but Jonathan Crane.  
  
"Where did you get that suit?" asked Two-Face suspiciously.  
  
"Traded for it in exchange for precious insight on the criminally insane." Crane said in a low voice as he beamed down at the other man. "Of course, I didn't tell Gordon  _everything_  I found out about our mutual friend. I'm reserving that right for you." Crane sat down next to Two-Face and pulled out a black mask he had crudely fashioned from a ripped piece of cloth the dead guard's uniform. "Wear this when I pay you a visit tonight. We're going to go on a little vacation, you and I."  
  
Two-Face looked around, making sure none of the guards heard the madman in the suit. Directing his suspicious stare at Crane, Two-Face whispered, "Not if it means handing the Joker over to you. I want to be the one choking the life out of him, Crane."  
  
"Now that's awfully selfish of you, Harvey-"  
  
"Two-Face," he corrected.  
  
"Fine. And after this little conversation I'm Scarecrow. At least we agree on that."  
  
Two-Face took out his coin. "Let's flip for him, shall we?"  
  
"I think not," said Crane with a puff of laughter and a slight wrinkle of the nose. "Maybe we should just part ways and see who gets there first? That's leaving it up to chance, too, right?"  
  
"No tricks when you let me out then?"  
  
"Two-Face," said Crane in a mock reproachful voice. "I respect you better than that. I have come to realize that you are the first colleague in my whole life that I can actually  _value_  and take pride in knowing that you are worthy of being my peer."  
  
"I'm honored."  
  
Ignoring the sarcasm, Scarecrow offered the crude mask. Two-Face looked at it before tentatively picking taking it.  
  
"You know Two-Face, I just had a brilliant idea. I really only want to get a hold of the Joker for scientific purposes. Now that I have my fear toxin back in my possession, I would love nothing more than to give a little spritz in that bastard's clowny face. After I take down some notes on the reaction he has to the toxin he will be useless to me. How about I turn him over to you then?"  
  
"Sounds fair...but you had better make sure you find him first because I can't guarantee I won't kill him if I get my hands on him before you. It all depends on his luck." Two-Face gave a meaningful flip of his coin.   
  
Scarecrow wagged his bony index finger at Two-Face, about to shoot back with a scathing remark when he noticed Dr. Arkham escorting three strangers with clipboards around. Jonathan froze.  
  
"What's wrong?" asked Two-Face.  
  
"It's the board," whispered Crane. "They only come when Arkham is due for upgrades." He stood up and tapped the table lightly. "Be ready when I see you next."  
  


* * *

  
  
Everyone was scurrying around the warehouse that morning, except Harley, who skated around the boys, an all-in-one reversible _Little Red Riding Hood_  storybook puppet on her right hand as she obnoxiously chewed on bubblegum, blowing bubbles and popping them loudly, much to the chagrin of Arbuckle, who cringed every time she skated near him, that god awful snapping sound ringing in his ears.   
  
The boys weren't used to working in daylight hours but Harley was quick to point out that the cover of night is exactly what Gordon and his coppers expected. Arbuckle in particular did not relish this being pointed out to him but his contempt went right above Harley's attention as she blew her bubbles.   
  
The Joker was dressed in street clothes, fidgeting as he tried to find some comfort in them but failing miserably at it. Despite the humid July weather, he was going out in a hooded long sleeve shirt so as to better hide his face paint free face.   
  
"I want all of that information when we meet up this afternoon at Robinson Park," the Joker said to Marx and Arbuckle on their way out.   
  
"Wait, what?" Marx asked worriedly. "Robinson Park?" It was lunacy; they weren't pulling off a big job, just a couple of small errands. Why would they go somewhere so public?  
  
"I'm indulging Harley's opinion that our eating habits leave much to be desired," the Joker cast a glance at Harley as she obliviously practiced her figure eight. "While she picks us up some more palatable grub, Roach is going to replenish our employee funds using the machine," he jabbed a thumb towards Roach packing up his laptop, "and Zigs and I are going to play Easter bunny." The Joker pointed to Zigs, who lifted a large old fashioned wicker picnic basket filled to the brim with brightly colored plastic Easter eggs.  
  
"A prize for the kiddies?" asked Arbuckle, a sick grin on his ugly face.  
  
"Something for everyone," was all the Joker would answer. Marx continued to eye him. "What?"  
  
"You know, they've been showing your mug shots on the television non-stop, boss...the ones without your paint."  
  
"So handsome..." Harley purred, skating over to the Joker to slip her arms under his. Absently the Joker placed a hand at the small of her back but kept his intense stare on Marx.  
  
"People might recognize you is all I'm getting at." Marx looked away nervously.  
  
"Is that all?" the Joker laughed. "I'm prepared." He took two bright pink Hello Kitty band-aids out of his denim pocket and proceeded to unwrap and apply them on the right side scar on his face, making an X shape. Taking out another band-aid, this time replicating a slice of bacon, he applied it along his left side scar. Crumbling the wrappers on the floor he then lifted the hood of his ripped up long sleeve shirt, his face nearly obscured. "Ta da! Instant average citizen."  
  
"Yay!" Harley exclaimed, nuzzling her head against his chest. "You're so clever." The Joker rewarded her praise with a small kiss atop her head.  
  
Amused, albeit unconvinced, Marx chuckled appreciatively before he and Arbuckle bade them farewell.   
  
Zigs drove this time with Harley in the front passenger seat to watch and learn. Driving the most notorious criminal around in city center broad daylight was tricky business. Parking in particular was a carefully honed skill; had to be legal, but with several routes nearby with a variety of exits available should their presence be found out. Harley was careful to absorb everything told to her.   
  
"Point that thing somewhere else!" the Joker shouted at Roach, who had his laptop opened and absently leaning towards his boss.   
  
"I'm not connected yet, boss," said Roach, used to the technophobe Joker. Harley heard the distinct soft click of a gun being cocked.   
  
"I. Said. Point. It. Some. Where.  _Else!_ "  
  
"You got it, boss. Pointing elsewhere." Shifting in his seat, Roach turned his back towards the Joker so that the laptop aimed at the tinted window instead.   
  
"What are you doing?" asked Harley to Roach.  
  
"I hop onto insecure servers from various shops and steal the customer's credit card information."  
  
"Identity theft," said Harley quietly, finally understanding Roach's role as the token hacker techno rat.   
  
"It's pretty small time," said Roach modestly. "Best to take from random individuals when lying low...reserve the big corporation funds for a special occasion."   
  
"I prefer doing it the old fashion way myself," said Zigs. "Mask on face, gun in hand."   
  
"Funny," laughed the Joker. "You didn't want to be part of my last three heists."  
  
"No, sir, not when I knew you were up to. No, I learn quick."  
  
"I'm lost," said Harley sweetly.  
  
"About nine months ago, Joker talked me into going along a job on a bogus corporation that was really a mob front and while I was loading up the dough from the vault he was busy blowing away the help. He clipped me and I was smart enough to go down and play possum."  
  
Harley stared at Zigs incredulously. She looked back over her seat at Mister J, who was resting his head against his raised arms, calmly listening to his driver.  
  
"What happened?" asked Harley as Zigs turned into a parking structure two blocks west of Robinson Park.   
  
"I waited until I knew he was leaving and beat him to the car...offered to drive him back to his then hideout. That's all there is to it."  
  
Harley was amazed, dumbfounded and at a loss for words all at once.   
  
"Never mind the other four times he's tried to kill you," commented Roach dryly, keeping his focus on his laptop.  
  
"Why?" asked Harley, looking at the Joker in the rear view mirror.   
  
"I dunno," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging.   
  
Lucking out with a ground level parking space, Zigs maneuvered the SUV into the space as he burst out in raucous laughter, amused by the Joker's complete indifference.   
  
"Have fun," said Roach distractedly, pounding away at the keyboard as the other three left him to his work, stretched out across the backseat, media player blaring grunge tunes.   
Zigs tapped on the tinted window where Roach's head rested. "Call me if you need anything." Roach gave him a thumbs up, too engrossed with hacking into the local Barnes & Noble to communicate any other way.

"Errands or fun first?" asked Zigs when he, the Joker and Harley entered Robinson Park.   
  
"Fun," said the Joker decidedly, he and Harley holding the picnic basket between them. "I'll need you to scamper off and find out what you can about our fear fetish friend's involvement with us and get back to us when you have something. We'll leave the other car in the space once Marx and Arbuckle get back."  
  
"No problem," said Zigs amiably. The three of them set off, Zigs filling his various pockets and sleeves with eggs to place on various spots of the expansive Robinson Park, calmly walking away to go about his chore in another direction. Harley waited until the Joker did the same before skating off with the significantly lighter picnic basket on her arm, removing the last third of the eggs, finding cozy little nesting spots for each and every single one. A lovely surprise in each egg waiting for the curious, unsuspecting Gothamite to pluck it from its carefully thought out locale.  
  
When she completed her task, Harley skated to the far end of Robinson Park where a modest sized farmer's market sat. Waiting under the shade of a tree until the Joker met up with her, Harley decided to people watch. She had gone to the Friday farmer's market before, in her former life as Harleen, and Robinson Park had always been a popular spot no matter the time of year...but now...there was a significant drop in patronage.   
  
_Does Mister J inspire the fears of that many people?_  Harley wondered in awe.  _It really was cheeky of the court to think anyone could figure him out._  Harley casually spun backwards.  _Genius like this shouldn't be locked away; it should be marveled._  Two muscled arms enveloped her, grasping her lithe body tightly.   
  
"Hey there, handsome," Harley chirped, wrapping her arms around the Joker's neck. Even with the skates on her feet she did not reach eye level with him.   
  
"Go do...whatever it is you were going to do." He drew out a handful of crumbled twenty dollar bills and handed them to Harley. "Don't take too long and don't talk to anyone."   
  
"They're looking for a  _doctor_ ," Harley stressed, confident no one would recognize her in her braided ram's horn hairdo, red short shorts with white polka dots and red tank top. "Not a Harley."   
  
Staring down at her absurdly carefree face the Joker remained impassive, his hands in the front pocket of his shirt as he merely nodded towards the food vendors in response. She took off, waving the empty picnic basket around in glee.   
  
"Bring me back something!" he shouted as an after thought, suddenly realizing he was hungry. Grumbling under his breath as he figured she was lost in her own daffy thoughts, the Joker roughly slammed back against the tree closest to him and watched Harley from a distance. Though he was leery of letting Harley go about on her own he was also self-aware enough to know that joining her would not end well. Human interaction was not one of his strong points, especially in such a calm, peaceful setting like Robinson Park. The temptation to razz the hardworking vendors and the innocent patrons would be too great for him to resist.   
  
Imagining the variety of tricks and vicious ways to ruin a idealistic Friday in Gotham's picture perfect Robinson Park, the Joker became lost in his thoughts and did not see the four legged creature running up to him until it already jumped up to greet him with a friendly bark. Instinctively flinching, the Joker relaxed as the dog clearly wanted to just make friends. Scratching the golden retriever on its head, the Joker thought fondly about the Rottweilers he had taken from the Chechen, vaguely wondering if any had survived the battle with Batman.   
  
"Sorry," cried a boy no older than sixteen as he ran up to him and commanded the friendly dog to sit. Fidgeting, the Joker was careful to keep his head slightly bowed. "He doesn't normally do that."  
  
"Dogs like me," replied the Joker shortly, watching the boy and dog interact. Something about it... _something...something...No. Gone. Good-bye._  
  
"Moe and I are practicing for the dog expo over Labor Day weekend," explained the boy, making Moe roll over, sit up and speak all in one go.  
  
"Moe?" repeated the Joker with some interest. "From the Three Stooges?"  
  
"No," replied the boy with a laugh, unaware he was talking to a killer. "Like Moe from  _The Simpsons_."  
  
The Joker turned away in disgust. What the hell was the world coming to? The least society could do was thank him for having decent taste and a fine appreciation for the classics. The older generation would at least be happy to have little punk kids like the one before him wiped off the face of the planet.   
  
"This is our signature trick," said the boy, making a gun shape out of his hand. Interested despite himself, the Joker watched as the boy yelled, "BANG!" and Moe the golden retriever pretended to limp, then crawl on his belly across the grass and finally rolled into a playing dead position. "Pretty cool, huh?"  
  
The Joker looked beyond the boy at Harley skating towards him.  
  
"It's all right," he replied, "But my pet is better."  
  
"What?" laughed the teenage boy, praising his dog with scratches and pets. "Took me months to teach Moe that trick. What can your dog do?"  
  
"I'll show you," said the Joker, opening his arms slightly as Harley skated directly to him. She placed her heavy picnic basket down at their feet and rested her head against his chest for a moment. Shopping had been fun for all of five minutes before the anxiety of being away from her Mister J was too great to handle and rushing through her task, she had come back prematurely.   
  
"Harley, say hello to Moe and his, uh, boy."  
  
All smiles now, Harley turned to the gobsmacked teen and his dog. She scratched Moe between the ears and leaned down to give a peck on his boy's cheek, her lips sticky sweet from her lip gloss.   
  
"Hi, there," she said cheerfully.  
  
"Wow," said the boy, backing away from the strange pair. "You're right; way better." He stared unabashedly at Harley's figure, his hand clutching his cheek where she had kissed him. "Uh, see you." Embarrassed, the teen and his dog took off.  
  
Alone now, they sat under the tree together, Harley prattling away about the items she bought and much to his approval, bringing out the food she had purchased specifically for him. Resting his head in her lap he permitted her to feed him as they waited for the others to join them. To the unsuspecting passers-by they were a young couple spending a lazy summer afternoon in the park, sharing a quiet conversation as she massaged his temples and hung on his every word.   
  
Growing impatient with his lackeys the Joker decided to look at Harley for entertainment. Grabbing a fist full of her shirt he pulled her down, crushing her lips against his. Taking advantage of her lowered position he slipped his hand down her shirt and pinched her breasts, rubbing his rough hands across her flesh, feeling the marred abrasions he created. Scratching at his shirt as Harley's hands roved across his chest he caught one stray hand as it reached the waist of his pants, trying to snake under. Trying to think of a suitable reprimand, their interlude was cut short as a deep voice above them cleared their throat.  
  
"Ahem, sorry to interrupt," said Marx, clearly disturbed by the image as he looked away.   
  
"We were just waiting for you," snapped the Joker, pushing Harley's face away from his. Disappointed she sat up straight and went back to being idle.  
  
"We found out who's been running things the most since you've been gone," said Arbuckle. "A guy from New York City called Boxy Bennett."  
  
"Boxy?" repeated the Joker with a burst of laughter. "Bennett is Irish mob. When did he come to Gotham?"  
  
"He's been here for a while but only just started his own gang. Most have been with him for a while now, transfers from NYC with the blessing of his own family."  
  
"Good old Dad Bennett gave little Boxy the funds and muscle to make his own name in the family business, huh?" the Joker leapt to his feet and brushed off the grass from his clothes. "Do we know where Boxy is going to be this weekend?"  
  
"That we do," replied Arbuckle with his ugly, twisted grin.  
  
"Great. Let's get out of here. All of this sunshine and fresh air is giving me a headache." He walked ahead of them, barking for Harley to catch up.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Gonna sleep in your suit, Mr. Crane?" asked the guard on duty that night. Jonathan did his best not to give the man a withering glare; he was going to have to rely on his charm and wit until the perfect moment presented itself.   
  
"No," replied Crane jovially. "I'm just not tired and I like to wear it as much as I can." In all honesty, Crane loathed the presence of others when he changed. It was not only demeaning but made him feel acutely aware of his incarceration.   
  
"Makes you feel like a doctor again, huh?"   
  
Jonathan could not tell if the man was attempting to be kind or meant to be facetious.   
  
"I  _am_  a doctor, sir."  
  
"Oh, sorry."   
  
Jonathan sat back on his bed, boney arms crossed against his chest, face hidden in the shadows as he tried to think of a way to convince this guard to let him out. Insomnia alone was enough for the guards he knew but this man was unknown to him and after hearing about Jonathan's outburst on Wednesday morning would not be so inclined to let him out...if he didn't know him.  
  
"Pardon my assumption," prompted Crane. "But are you new to our happy little funny farm on the hill?"  
  
"Yeah," replied the guard. "Just moved here from Boston."  
  
Jonathan tsked. "What a time to move to Gotham."  
  
"No kidding," replied the guard with a humorless laugh. "My wife's from Gotham and her parents are giving us their home since ours got foreclosed on."  
  
"Such a pity," said Crane with what he hoped sounded like sympathy rather than the actual boredom he was feeling. "That seems to be happening a lot nowadays."  
  
"Sure is," said the guard. "Thank God for my wife's family. You know, not many people luck out in the in-law department but I'd take a bullet for mine. Salt of the earth, those people. Never throw it back in my face, either. You know, that I can't provide for my wife."  
  
"Nonsense," Jonathan lightly scolded. "You can't help the current state of the economy. You have a full time job and you're doing the best you can. You deserve the respect of your family because you have  _earned_  it."  
  
"Thanks," replied the guard, feeling red in his face from the praise of a supposed maniac. "If you don't mind me saying, Mister, er, Dr. Crane, I'm having a really hard time figuring out why you're in here. I mean, they told me why, but you just don't seem like you belong in Arkham."  
  
"I don't strike you as the average raging lunatic?" chuckled Crane, amused by the guard's admission.  
  
"Yeah, I guess that's what I'm trying to say."   
  
"Thank you, that's comforting to hear. I've had a similar train of thought." Jonathan stood up and stretched. "I apologize if I'm particularly verbose; I don't suppose you were informed that I suffer from insomnia?"   
  
"Actually," the guard looked embarrassed, as he had been deliberately avoiding the subject before their conversation. "Barney told me. He said your brain doesn't let your body sleep much."   
  
"That it doesn't," agreed Crane, flexing his neck and shoulders. "So if I pace around my room continuously please pay me no mind; I'm simply trying to wear myself out."  
  
Hesitantly at first the guard said, "Barney said you can go for walks around the floor. He said Wednesday wasn't about to be repeated because you had been provoked..."  
  
"That I was, sir," said Crane incredulously. "My behavior was appalling but honestly, who could blame me? That vile monster killed two wonderful staff members. Did you know I hired that lovely nurse?"  
  
"No, Dr. Crane, I didn't," said the guard, his sympathy fully aligned with the man behind the glass. Without another moment of hesitation the guard took his pass key and swiped it through Jonathan Crane's security lock. He was rewarded with a face full of fear toxin and a blow to the back of his head with the butt of the gun Scarecrow had stolen from the guard he had killed the day before.  
  
"I was set on killing you," said Jonathan as he gathered the other items he had taken back to his cell and removed the gun and pass key from the unconscious guard. "But you did a service to my ego and I know you meant it. You're right. I don't belong here in Arkham. I belong back in the heart of Gotham City."  
  
  
Two-Face saw the Scarecrow coming before the guard, who only had enough time to register the lanky man in the mask charging at him before the wrist spritzer was at his eye level, filling his senses with fear toxin. While the guard writhed on the floor, frantically brushing away non-existent centipedes, Scarecrow swiped the pass key through the security lock, freeing Two-Face.   
  
"Now where to?" asked Two-Face through his mask. He saw another guard at the other end of the hall on the floor unmoving.   
  
"The parking lot," answered Scarecrow, holding up car keys. "Having the advantage of being a former employee of our beloved bastille I happen to know where a certain doctor keeps the keys to a car they don't wish their wife to know about."  
  


* * *

  
  
Lounging on the couch late that night, laptop open to a game of minesweeper, Roach was enjoying one of these rare quiet moments he knew were about to come to an end. The others must have felt similar as they, too, were casually gathered in the common area of the warehouse. Marx was reading the horses, Arbuckle the sports page and Zigs working on a crossword puzzle. With their boss distracted upstairs, all was gratefully calm. Until Roach spoke up.  
  
"So," Roach casually piped up, a quick cautionary glance over his shoulder then over to his colleagues. "Where did the Joker come from?"  
  
"Boy," Zigs sighed, "your brains would be splattered across that expensive computer of yours if boss man heard you just now."  
  
Marx smirked to himself and Arbuckle pointedly ignored the conversation, coughing uncomfortably.  
  
"C'mon!" Roach insisted petulantly. "Why the big mystery? Someone has to know something. I'm just curious."  
  
Impatiently, Zigs looked up at his young friend. "Do not continue down this road, Roach!"  
  


  
  
"The better to eat you with my dear! And then the wolf gobbled up Little Red Riding Hood. Yummy in my tummy, Omnomnomnom," Harley's guttural wolf imitation began to sound like a garbage disposal but this only endeared her to the Joker, who lay on his side head propped up as he looked down at his own talking puppet. She was giving him a one woman show with the reversible all-in-one Little Red Riding Hood puppet. "Didja like it?" she asked, making the puppet give him a peck on his scarred cheek.  
  
"I love any story where a defenseless granny and a snot-nose brat get their comeuppance," he replied, finding himself in a rare mood of centered calm. His mania had yet to swing back into its typical state of agitation; everyone expected it to by the time they had arrived home, even after Zigs had turned up empty handed regarding Jonathan Crane and Harley had attempted to make a dinner but only succeeded in catching the burner on fire, thus ruining dinner but not the Joker's mood.   
Tracing patterns on Harley's chest above the swell of her breasts, the Joker asked her, "Do you want me to tell you a story?"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  


  
  
"I know a story," said Marx quietly, his eyes fixed on the newspaper in his lap but no longer reading the words. "It may not even be true. I've only heard it once before but something about it just sticks to the back of my mind...About a wise guy who went by the name the Red Hood."  
  
  
  
"Once upon a time," began the Joker with the Red Riding Hood puppet on his hand, the wolf face turned around that it replaced Red's in her crimson cape. "There was a big bad wolf that lived in the darkest forest that was overrun with wolf packs. Our big bad wolf didn't run with a pack, though. He was a lone wolf."  
  
  
  
"The Red Hood wasn't aligned with anyone," Marx continued. "Total freelancer. When a crime boss didn't trust his own guys to do the job, or needed someone will affiliations to hit one of their own, or just wanted the best, they hired Red Hood."  
  
  
  
"This big, bad lone wolf was the card the other wolves in the forest went to when those pesky hunters cornered them. But because he was a lone wolf and refused to join any packs he had to wear a disguise."  
  
  
  
"Why call himself the Red Hood?" Roach asked, intrigued.  
"Because no one was dumb enough - or brave enough depending on how you looked at it - to be a solo act in Gotham. Everyone had a family they belonged to. Falcone, whoever. You didn't go it alone. So the Red Hood had to hide his identity to protect himself."  
  
  
The Joker rolled his eyes and made a sardonic sound of humorlessness. "It was ridiculously funny, really. The best wolf for the jobs nobody had the balls or brains to do - sought after when the packs were desperate, yet hunted himself because he was a loner who was too good to keep around."  
"Why didn't he just join a pack?" asked Harley.  
"Talent like this didn't come to just anyone; it would have been a crime against the world to let one pack horde it." Seeing the worried look in her eyes he gave her his best smile, a terrifying sight for most but a comfort to Harley. "Besides, he was too good for those wolves."  
  
  
  
"Why didn't he just save himself the trouble and join a family?" Roach asked.  
"Are you nuts? Then he'd only be able to work for that family instead of makin' a profit off all their backs. His income would've been cut worse than the public education budget."  
"What exactly did he do that was so profitable?"  
"Had a knack for magic tricks."  
"Magic tricks?" Roach repeated dubiously.   
"Yeah. They said he was real good with the disappearing act. You had a problem with some pig gumshoe? Some nosey dame? A rival wise guy? Meet the Red Hood's quote and poof! Your problem magically disappeared."  
  
  
  
"Then one day," the Joker went on, bobbing the wolf puppet as if to mimic walking. "The wolf thought he'd have a good laugh at the expense of one of the packs." The Joker twisted his mouth in an expression of irony. "Things didn't go according to plan, though, and the big bad wolf was..." the Joker drifted for a moment before re-focusing back to his story. " _thoroughly convinced_  never to show his face again. The end."  
  
  
  
"What happened to the Red Hood?"  
"No idea," Marx answered. "He just vanished one day. No one has heard of him since."  
"Maybe he retired."  
"Nah, I dunno. From what I understand he was only on the scene for a year, two at most. Takes a good ten before you've killed enough people to retire comfortably."  
Roach laughed. "Wait - are you saying our boss is this Red Hood guy?"  
"I don't know!" Marx said with a defensive hand in the air. "I don't know. What I do know is that the Joker is good at what he does. Too good for someone who's only been around for one year. All I'm saying is...some genius is acquired."  
"Not for him," chimed in Arbuckle, putting his newspaper down and getting up to leave. "Joker's psychopathic. He was just born this way. Don't try and complicate him with a fairy tale, Marx."  
  
  
  
"Aww," Harley cooed. "Poor wolfie." She patted the wolf on his head.  
  
  
  
"Y'all are stupid to even be talking 'bout this," said Zigs, slapping the crossword down on the coffee table before getting up to leave. "Marx, who the hell you hear that story from in the first place?"  
"Uhh...that twitchy guy from a while back...Thomas?"  
"Thomas?" repeated Zigs with a raised brow. "You mean Thomas the paranoid schizophrenic? Way to check your sources, bro."  
Marx waited until Zigs left the room before cursing in defeat even as Roach's laughter rang through the warehouse.   
  
  
  
The Joker's smirk widened and his expression took on a distinct wolfish quality about it. He stuck the puppet right up against Harley's face and in a deep voice said, "My, little girl come closer to me!"  
  
Giggling, Harley played along. "Ooh grandma, what big eyes you have!  
  
Joker pinned her down with his body and brought the tip of his nose against hers.  
  
"The better to see you with, my dear!"  
  
Squirming with laughter as he took hold of her ear lobe with his teeth, growling as he rubbed the soft puppet against her other ear Harley squealed, "My! What big ears you have, grandmother."  
  
"The better to hear you with my dear!"  
  
Her girlish giggles slowly turning into soft, airy gasps as the Joker shimmed down her body, lifting up her silk red nightie, leaving noisy, sloppy kisses and bites down to her naval. Sliding back up, he roughly squeezed her heavy little right breast in the wolf puppet clad hand. Wanting to pry her eyes from the grotesque image of an inanimate red hood clad wolf simulating sex with her breast; Harley was thankfully distracted when the Joker clamped down on her left nipple. His other hand snaked between her legs to lightly slap her inner thigh, and she obligingly parted them.  
  
"My," gasped Harley, "What big hands you have."  
  
Pinching her mouth between his thumb and index finger before slithering down her body once more, he replied, "The better to hold you with, my dear."  
Nestled between her legs the Joker laughed to himself as Harley impetuously raised her hips, her damp red panties on bold display and as an afterthought he grinded the face of the wolf puppet against her crotch.   
  
Harley started, even as he chortled at her surprise, then to his delight she went with it and gyrated her hips seductively against the puppet's wolf face. Grinding harder against her, the Joker moved the fingers inside the puppet to further Harley's obvious pleasure.   
  
"Line," the Joker reminded her, poking her belly button.   
  
"My," said Harley between pants, "what big teeth you have!"  
  
Her gyrations came to a cold stop as she heard the familiar sharp noise of the cupid knife being unsheathed. She stared wide eyed as he calmly cut down the center of her underwear with such precision nothing other than cheap, moistened fabric was sliced away. Tearing away at the remnants and sheathing the knife he roughly took hold of her thighs.   
"The better to eat you with, my dear."  
  
Harley knew it had been coming but this did not prepare her for it nevertheless. Like everything he did to her, he did it not with gentle tenderness but with electrifying energy and an intense viciousness. Jamming his tongue deep inside her, Harley twisted and writhed, forcing her body to a quiet quiver as his tongue stroked the inside of her pussy then deliberately, languidly across her clit. Shuddering, Harley started with a yelp as his teeth took hold and ferociously tugged on her, drawing shriek after shriek out of her, uncaring that poor Roach downstairs was awakened by her vocals and, having nowhere else to sleep other than the couch, put on his ear phones and adjusted his Winamp playback settings to repeat.   
Riding out her orgasm in a series of high pitch short squeaks as the Joker's nails dug into her thigh, trying to hold her still as he sucked her clit in and out of his mouth, between his unforgiving teeth, Harley's body finally fell still for a brief, quiet moment.   
  
"My turn, little girl," the Joker said maliciously, kneeling at the edge of his bed where he grabbed her cruelly by the waist, flipped her over onto her belly and dragged her up on all fours.   
Her body back on fire Harley gleefully laughed between her groans and vulgarly pushed out her backside rubbing the crotch of his pants. Growling with frustration as he tried to take off his belt with only one hand, the other still inside the puppet, the Joker crudely jammed the puppet's head inside of Harley and wiggled his hand free.  
  
"Hold that for me, will ya?"  
  
Clamping her muscles around the puppet so as not to let it go and upset him, Harley was quickly shown his appreciation when he removed the wolf puppet and replaced it with his erection. Fucking her from behind he had the superb advantage of being able to arch over her and wrap an arm around her sweat slicked body and grab hold of her bouncing tits. Sighing appreciatively, Harley reached forward and grasped her knife from under the single pillow they shared. Spotting it, the Joker grabbed it from her and righted himself, his nails digging into her firmly toned yet soft flesh as he pounded into her. Spurned on as he gazed down at his masterful work across her back, the scarification tattoos glistening with her perspiration, both of them silently acknowledging she would be nothing without him as he owned her, lock stock and barrel.  
  
"Fuck me, daddy," cried Harley in a shrill, lusty voice. Rolling his head against her back as he laughed, the Joker made a small upward slice across her cheek.  
  
"I'm daddy now, hm? Or am I the big, bad wolf?"  
  
"B-both!"  
  
"I see," he cackled, keeping a firm grip on her hips, the knife waiting to strike as it was pressed between his palm and her flesh. "Daddy finds his little girl sneaking off and turns into the big, bad wolf to punish her!"   
  
"Yes, yes," screamed Harley, her climax starting to build.   
  
Clutching the blade in the palm of his hand the Joker wound his arm around and drove the handle into the front of her pussy. Gasping, her lips trembling, Harley pushed back against him in response.  
  
"Harder, daddy, harder!"  
  
Furious she would command him, he rammed the metal handle as far as it would go, uncaring if it cut either of them, as he banged into her from behind with an increased intensity that caused Harley to cry out appreciatively, even as the Joker used his free hand to grab her by a pigtail and twist her head back.  
  
"How's that, little girl?"  
  
Unable to speak, Harley mewled in response.  
  
With each word a thrust from both directions. "How. Many. Times. Have. I Told. You! Bad little girls get fucked by big, bad wolves."  
  
Forcing herself to focus enough to reply, Harley shrieked, "Yes, Daddy!"  
  
"What do you say?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
  
He dropped the knife in favor of her hips, jutting upwards as he came inside her, her own climax shuddering around him.   
Pulling her against his body as he laid them both down on their sides, staying inside of her, he wrapped his limbs possessively around her trembling body. Feeling around the bed he found the discarded puppet and slipped it back on his hand, picking up the knife in its fuzzy little hands and nuzzling the puppet's furry face against Harley's neck, gently wiping the knife, slicked with her own fluids, across her skin. 

"The better to fuck you with, my dear."

A low snickering emitted from deep within their chests, slowly evolving into a full throated laughing fit. 

 

* * *

  
  
"You sure have an expensive eye," commented Two-Face dryly, wondering how soon Scarecrow's costly taste for Dr. Arkham's black Turbo 911 Sportec SP600 Porsche convertible was going to be their pitfall before they even had a chance to cross the bridge out of the Narrows.   
  
"That I do, that I do," chuckled Crane, feeling the wind whip through his dark hair in the most satisfying manner. "On that note, I'm not one to hide out in squalor unless it's determinately necessary, so if you have somewhere in particular you want me to drop you off let me know, otherwise I'm going to see a friend of mine."  
  
Two-Face eyed Scarecrow warily. "A friend?"  
  
"Someone trustworthy and right now that's the only requirement I have for a friend. He's a genius, actually, a neuroscientist who specializes in neural engineering. Fascinating, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," murmured Two-Face, having no idea what Scarecrow just said. "What's the name of your  _friend_?"  
  
"Tetch. Jervis Tetch."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> \- So I tried my hardest not to get too silly with this chapter but I couldn't help myself with the Robinson Park scene.  
> \- Bacon strip shaped band-aids are real and they rock.  
> \- I believe Joker is kind of a technophobe for reasons that involving tracking and the fact that he is more of a hands-on kind of guy who relies on old school resources and only uses advanced technology when it's absolutely necessary and so he can dump it at a moments notice.  
> \- I based Roach's scam on this huge ID theft ring where the thieves would do exactly that: steal info off of insecure servers from a variety of retail stores. Millions of people were hit.  
> \- I used to think that the Joker would be the kind of person who would willfully hurt an animal. I've changed my mind, especially since reading a newly purchased comic book where the Joker clearly states his disgust on animal cruelty. I don't think he's a very attentive pet owner, but that's part of the ego-neurosis, not willful malice. I do kind of find it ironic that the only thing that truly upset me about The Dark Knight was the Rottweiler abuse at the hands of Batman. Makes me wonder if either Nolan's had a bad experience as a kid.  
> \- I hope you all understood the all-in-one flip/reversible dolls. There is a series of storybook soft cloth dolls where all of the characters are included in one hand puppet - just flip a character over/under and a new character will appear.  
> \- I think Little Red Riding Hood is very fitting for Joker x Harley for a variety of reasons: (a) the red hood reference (b) the original tale is about loss of innocence and sexual corruption (c) the implications are astounding (d) the basic concept of a confident, independent young female heading out into the world with a set task and getting corrupted by a "wolf" kind of screams Joker/Harley.  
> \- I couldn't help the Red Hood story. Take from it what you will; I'm not giving him a definitive origins story, I'm just giving him yet another tale to spin for the imagination and curiosity of others.  
> \- Imagine the psychosis of both Joker and Scarecrow like waves in the ocean: sometimes they're serene and calm, other times they're crashing and dangerous. They both have extreme psychotic mania that, for the most part, they can't control but just ride with. Joker has better adaptation skills than Scarecrow, in my opinion, because he accepts it and owns it. Scarecrow doesn't really suffer from insomnia, of course, but a consequence of mania. He just couldn't say that to win over the guard.  
> \- Google image the model of the car I spent a good 30 minutes researching. Just do it and tell me that is not the kind of car Nolanverse Scarecrow would drive.  
> \- Jervis Tetch, everyone! DA DA DUUUNN!


	9. Six of Diamonds: Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom." -Soren Kierkegaard

  
  
  
"My car," growled Jonathan Crane as he struggled to pry the license plate off of Dr. Arkham's sports car. He had found a tool kit in the trunk and was taking turns using each tool to get rid of the plates.   
  
Two-Face watched him with bored impatience, wondering when Crane's ego would finally break down and ask for assistance.   
  
"Shit!" cried Crane as he fell on his bottom, the hammer spinning across the cement floor of the parking garage in Jervis Tetch's building. He lived in an upscale ultra-modern high rise condominium, where Jonathan had lived prior to being caught by the Batman. It would only be a matter of time before the police came sniffing around the area to see if Crane would go after any old haunts. Little did they know he would be right under their snouts.  
  
"All right," said Two-Face as he knelt down and expertly took hold of the screwdriver. "I've had enough." In less than five minutes Two-Face had the plate unscrewed and quietly handed it along with the screws to Jonathan, who sat fuming.  
  
"Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Helping you lost the coin toss."  
  
Scowling, Crane wrapped the plate in his coat and gathering his belongings lead the way up the stairs to an empty floor where they took the elevator up to the top floor.  
  
"Nice place," commented Two-Face, avoiding looking directly into the gold plated mirrored walls of the elevator.  
  
"I thought so," said Jonathan after a lengthily pause. When the elevator doors opened Jonathan moved to step out but Two-Face blocked him with his arm. Crane stared at him, waiting with infuriating patience.  
  
"I know that you know I was the one who signed away your freedom when Batman captured you. You know I would have known where you previously lived, having been the one to put his name on the search warrants."  
  
"Yes," replied Jonathan calmly.  
  
"Be honest. Are you just planning on killing me right here tonight?"  
  
"And waste all of that potential?" laughed Crane, hugging his belongings to his chest. "No, Harvey Dent, revenge was already mine when you arrived at Arkham three months ago. I bear no ill will for you now."  
  
Dropping his arm, Two-Face watched him pass by, confidently leading the way to the single apartment on the left hand side of the hall. They waited several minutes after Jonathan rang the buzzer before the door was painstakingly unlocked, several chains and deadbolts coming undone in the process. When the door opened, only one chain still remained. A man of slightly-less-than-average height with strawberry blonde hair peeked out at them.  
  
"Jonathan?" he whispered.  
  
"Evening, Jervis."  
  
"I was wondering when you'd come back."  
  
"Wonder no more." Jonathan smiled at the petite man.  
  
"I got most of your belongings out of your apartment before the police had the opportunity to go ransack it. Everything is in the spare bedroom." Jervis then noticed Two-Face, his blue eyes bulging in recognition. "I thought you were dead, Mr. Dent."  
  
"You were misinformed."  
  
"Can we impose on you for a while, Jervis?" asked Jonathan before Two-Face's curtness ruined any chance of staying in comfort.   
  
"Of course," said Jervis agreeably, unlocking the door and letting his two unexpected guests in. Two-Face eyed the man warily, wondering what kind of man he was to welcome two criminals into his condo. Obviously, Crane and Tetch had more in common than just being neighbors. "Make yourselves at home."   
  
Jonathan did just that, dropping his items on a white couch where he sat back, smiling to himself. Two-Face reluctantly settled into a matching expensive white chair, eyeing the spacious modern loft, trying not to give away his reaction. It was a two story condo with a split-level first floor. Everything was white, blue and gold and on all of the shelves displayed around the room were a massive collection of hats of all shapes, sizes and colors. A large gold clock in the shape of a pocket watch hung on the far wall above his white fireplace, showing the time being midnight.   
  
"Tea?" asked Jervis apathetically, oblivious to Two-Face's discomfort. Crane nodded but Two-Face shook his head, his mind desperately trying to think of a place he could run to first thing in the morning. When he was sure that Jervis was out of range, Two-Face leaned over the glass end table to whisper to Crane.  
  
"Your friend is a little odd."  
  
"So what?" Crane hissed back. "With every genius comes a little quirkiness."  
  
"What's with the hats?"  
  
Jonathan eyed the hat collection and replied, "Classic inferiority complex, Harvey. Jervis is short in stature, so he connects with the idea of the hat, which would give him the appearance of being taller. God, didn't you learn anything in your psych 101 class?"  
  
"I was too busy learning how to put criminals like us away to learn how their brains actually worked."  
  
"Well now you have first hand experience in the matter," said Crane pleasantly as Jervis rejoined them, handing a teacup to Jonathan and sitting opposite on the other white chair.   
  
"What's with the dragon?" asked Two-Face, nodding towards a framed black and white sketch on the wall behind Jonathan. Jervis smiled for the first time since the men arrived.  
  
"That's not a dragon, Mr. Dent. That's the Jabberwocky as drawn by Sir John Tenniel for Lewis Carroll's immortal novel  _Through the Looking Glass_."   
  
"Alice in Wonderland?" asked Two-Face, feeling as if he had uncovered something hideous within the small, mild-mannered man and regretting it instantly.  
  
"Yes, are you familiar with the works?"  
  
"Can't say I am."  
  
"Jervis," interrupted Crane smoothly. "I know it's early for you but I'm going to turn in. I just need to make a quick phone call."  
  
"Who are you going to call?" asked Two-Face suspiciously, not wanting Crane to leave him alone with the weirdo. Jonathan ignored the question and took his things into the guest room Jervis indicated at the bottom of the staircase that stood in the raised level of the first floor beyond the living room.   
  
"Crane tells me you're a scientist," said Two-Face after moments of uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Yes, I work in neuroscience," said Jervis amiably. "Actually, I was in the middle of something when you two rang. If you wouldn't mind, I'm going to excuse myself for the night." He stood up and apologized to Two-Face for not having another spare room but indicated a closet where Two-Face would find any linens he needed, as he was welcome to sleep on the couch. Two-Face didn't think he would be sleeping much that night.   
  
Waiting for Crane to return, Two-Face grew restless and just as he was about to find out what the hell was taking the man so long the bedroom door opened and a clearly perturbed Crane stood across the threshold, blocking the light.  
  
"Sorry, Harvey. I'm going to go to bed now. Goodnight."  
  
Startled by Crane's sudden change in demeanor, Two-Face could only nod in response, inwardly grateful to be finally alone.  
  


* * *

  
  
"I'm traumatized!" Roach squeaked.  
  
"He should have slept in the car!" Arbuckle scolded.  
  
"With all of the fumes?" Zigs contested.   
  
"Better a little carbon monoxide poisoning than this! Look at him; he's in shock!"   
  
"Roach, stop being such a pussy," Marx huffed. "What are you, a puritan? It's not like you never heard fucking before."  
  
"It went on for hours!"  
  
The other men promptly shut up; looking around at each other's reddening faces.  
  
"Uh, _really?_ "  
  
"Shut up," Roach snapped in a high pitch squeak as he covered his ears, "I don't want to talk about it!"  
  
"Ok, man."  
  
A pause before Marx snickered, "What was it like?"  
  
"Gross, man!" Zigs exclaimed in a loud whisper.   
  
"Like... _evil clown porn_."  
  
"Man, and they say he's the fucked up one!" cried Zigs. "You guys are sick." Zigs went over to the couch and turned on the television. Unsurprisingly it was a live report outside Arkham.   
  
"Another Joker update," yawned Zigs.  
  
"...no sign of Jonathan Crane but GCPD assures us here at GNN that they are doing everything they can to ensure public safety. This is the second breakout at Arkham Asylum this week, bringing into question just how secure the facility really is. We've been told that the board of trustees is moving in to take serious and immediate changes regarding the current state of Arkham Asylum."  
  
The men silently looked at one another, knowing what had to be done. Simultaneously they shouted, "Not it!"  
  
"Fuck all of you," cried Roach spreading his arms out. "After what I went through last night none of you can make me go up there and tell him that. You're gonna to have to shoot me first."  
  
"Fine," said Marx calmly. "We'll settle this the old fashioned way."  
  
"Rock, paper, scissors?"  
  
"You bet." He, Roach and Arbuckle gathered around and waited for Zigs. Feeling their stare, Zigs looked up at them.  
  
"No way," he chuckled. "I did my job yesterday regarding Crane. Y'all are going to have to work this one out yourselves." He got up and, after turning off the television, walked into the kitchenette.   
  
The three remaining henchmen performed the first round, which spared Roach the ordeal of having to wake the Joker. Laughing maniacally, he danced backwards and pointed at his two comrades as they stared menacingly at each other.  
  
"I'll give you ten thousand dollars, Marxy," said Arbuckle.  
  
"Just shoot, Fatty."  
  
They kept their glares on one another as they went another round, Arbuckle's rock losing to Marx's paper.   
  
"It was nice working with you, man."  
  
"I hate all of you," spat Arbuckle, making his way up the stairs, gripping the railing with his sweaty, meaty palm. Hoping the Joker had already used up his manic aggression on Harley, Arbuckle stood outside the loft and cast a glance down to see his colleagues staring up, waiting in anticipation. Rapping on the door, Arbuckle cleared his throat. "Boss? You awake?"  
  
Inside the room, the Joker stirred at the noise outside. Awakening to a dull thud in his head and an overall mood of complete annoyance, the Joker reluctantly opened his eyes and glared at the door.  
  
"What?" he barked, the noise causing Harley to involuntarily jump in her sleep as she was tightly tucked next his body.  
  
Sucking in a large reath, Arbuckle went for the cut and dry delivery as he exhaled. "It's all over the news...Jonathan Crane escaped from Arkham last night."  
  
Arbuckle tensed as he heard a frustrated animalistic growl emanate from the loft.   
  
"With Two-Face?" asked the Joker.  
  
"No mention of Dent," said Arbuckle.  
  
The Joker was already up and dressing, pacing around his room frantically, trying to think what Crane might be up to. Slicing the walls with his cupid knife, he caught sight of the slumbering Harley, peacefully unaware. Storming onto the bed he bent down and struck her hard across the face. Startled, Harley awoke with a cry of pain, clutching her face. Before she had time to register what had happened the Joker was pummeling her ruthlessly, striking her even as she desperately pleaded for an explanation while she covered her head and curled into a fetal position.   
  
Hearing Harley's alarmed cries of pain, Arbuckle breathed a sigh of relief. Downstairs, Roach held his stomach, repulsed by the cries for mercy, unsure of his feelings on the matter. Nervously Marx and Zigs kept their eyes fixed on the loft, watching the foil on the windows rattle with the commotion going on inside.   
  
Pulling her to her feet by the arm, the Joker spun Harley around and threw her into the corner where she collided with the clothes racks that tumbled down on top of her. Staggering to her feet, Harley tried pleading.  
  
"What did I do?" she sobbed, blood trickling down the side of her head as a bruise began to smarten up her face where he had first slapped her. "Just tell me what's wrong; maybe I can-" She screamed as he crossed the room and, grabbing her by the throat, heaved her considerably lighter body at the front of the room where she crashed into the television, propelling it backwards.   
  
"Holy shit," cried Roach as he and Marx scrambled away as soon as they heard the terrific crashing noise, the television plummeting to the floor of the warehouse, smashing into a great pile of nothing as glass littered around it.   
  
His temper slowing ebbing, the Joker's chest heaved as he stared at Harley lying unconscious where the television used to be. Stepping over her body, careful to avoid the broken glass, the Joker stared through the gaping hole in his foiled up window. Zigs was looking up at him.  
  
"Some more foil, boss?" he asked pleasantly.  
  
"Please."  
  
Straightening up as Harley started to moan behind him, the Joker walked over to her and placed a firm foot on her back, kneeling down beside her as she struggled to keep conscious.  
  
In a mocking tone the Joker said, "Looks like I got a little carried away there, pumpkin, but you know how I get when things don't go my way. Our friend Scarecrow has decided to upstage me. I don't know what he's up to, but Daddy's going to be out all day on an errand. You stay here and continue with our plans for Mr. Boxy Bennett. Kay?"  
  
"O-okay," Harley groaned, using all her strength for a single nod.  
  
The Joker finished dressing, his own style this time, and just as he was about to leave had an afterthought. "Oh, and Harleykins?"  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"Be sure to clean this place up. It looked so nice before."  
  


* * *

  
  
Two-Face woke up to the sound of Jonathan Crane's agitated voice wafting through the apartment, trying to unsuccessfully keep his voice low. Sitting up, Two-Face looked at the pocket watch clock, noting it was half past noon. _So much for getting up early and ditching the two dandies._  
  
Following the voices into the kitchen, Two-Face saw Crane pacing around frantically, pushing his black hair out of his eyes as Jervis Tetch leaned against the white kitchen table, pleasantly listening to his friend's ranting.  
  
"...nobody is picking up and this is the fifth time I've called. I mean, where else could he be?"  
  
"I don't know," said Jervis with neither care nor contempt.  
  
"Do you think he's-" Crane stopped, noticing Harvey. Nervously wiping his sweaty palms down the pant leg of a new suit, Jonathan quickly smiled but it was too late to fool Two-Face. "Hello. How are you?"  
  
"Worried," confessed Two-Face. "Nobody knows I'm alive. How is Gordon going to handle a dead man escaping Arkham?"  
  
"I wouldn't be too worried, Mr. Dent," said Jervis, indicating a fresh newspaper on his kitchen table. "Only Jonathan's name was mentioned this morning and something about the Joker pulling some bizarre stunt in Robinson Park yesterday."  
  
"Stunt?"  
  
"Left dozens of those cheap plastic Easter eggs all over the park, each with something different in them. The police aren't saying much to the media, but a few money hungry people have leaked their findings to the press. Looks to be a message of some kind. Each egg had a single word in it with a Joker card and piece of candy, or a razor-blade or some other kind of plastic trinket with it."  
  
"I'm not interested in his stupid little games," growled Two-Face. "Just in finding him."  
  
"About that," Jonathan chimed in with his usual condescending smile. "I was wondering, when you were the D.A. did you ever run into-"   
  
Crane stopped, seeing Jervis shake his head no, furrowing his light brows in disapproval.  
  
"What?" Two-Face pressed.   
  
"Never mind," said Crane, confused but smiling nonetheless.   
  
Realizing he interrupted something, Two-Face made a hasty exit, muttering something about a shower. When he left, Jonathan sat at the kitchen table and leaning his head on his crooked arm, stared out the floor length window, the Gotham skyline hazy with dark clouds off the coastline.   
  
Keeping his blue eyes fixed on the scenery, Jonathan quietly asked, "Do you think he's dead, Jervis?"  
  
"It would certainly solve your problems, Jonathan." Jervis scooted out a chair and gingerly sat next to his manic friend. "I don't understand why you're so upset; dozens of your former guinea pigs are on the loose. What's one more rambling lunatic to the laundry list of charges Commissioner Gordon already has against you?"  
  
"It's not Gordon I'm worried about..."  
  


* * *

  
  
Harley waited until she heard the distinct sound of gravel being crushed by a departing SUV before hoisting herself up and surveying the damage - both to the room and to her body. The only significant damage was the window and television; everything else just needed to be picked up and brushed off. Harley couldn't say the same for herself, though. After straightening out the room she took the sheet off of the bed and wrapped it around her body, tip-toeing downstairs. Nobody was in the warehouse to see Harley scurrying into the previously unused ladies room. The boys had been using it as a storage facility for unwanted items but when Harley arrived she had made a path for herself so she could have privacy.   
  
Flipping on the switch, Harley removed the sheet and examined her body. Disregarding the older marks made in fun, she focused on the fresh bruises smattered across her torso, neck and face. The worse was the slap he had given her to wake her up; it left a hand sized purpling mark along with swollen flesh under her eye. The other facial marks would fade soon and the shallow cut above her right ear had already stopped bleeding.   
  
Otherwise her back received the most abuse, especially where she had collided with other objects. Baring her teeth at her own reflection Harley said aloud, "That stupid Scarecrow thinks he's smarter than Mister J. What a laugh. Look what he did to me! I hope the Joker finds you, Professor Crane, and strings you up for good."  
  
  


* * *

  
Dr. Joan Leland rested her head against her hands, her sobs slowly subsiding. Wiping the tears from under her eyes she closed the manila folder and pushed it aside, revolted. It was her fault...all her fault. Why didn't she see it? Why did she let her admiration for Harleen get the best of her professional opinion? Harleen reminded Joan of herself fifteen years back...ambitious, driven, and intelligent. Criminal psychology was still a field dominated by men...Joan was just too eager to finally have another woman on the team.   
  
She'd had a sinking feeling in her gut after Detective Stephens mentioned Harleen's cell phone and credit cards being cancelled. That kind of behavior was unusual for someone just settling into a new life. So Joan had taken Harleen's notes from her sessions with the Joker and going against all HIPPA privacy laws and ethics, read them inside and out.  
  
It was like reading a horror novel, the plot slowly unfolding as the audience begins to realize the heroine they initially cheered for was really the ax murderer. The first six weeks were fine, completely professional with the usual novice mistakes of formatting. Then...ever so gradually, the notes took on a personal feeling. They were sympathetic stream of conscious tangents going on about chaos, extreme personalities, evolutionary theories on how the Joker's mind was really evolved and the vigilante Batman could have been evolved if he didn't fight it. Endearments were scattered in the margins, accompanied by schoolgirl doodling of hearts, spades, diamonds and clovers. The notes completely stopped four weeks prior, when Dr. Leland had given Harleen the green light on holding daily sessions. 

She should report it. It was her duty to pick up the phone and call Jim Gordon right away...but she couldn't. If there was any suspicion Harleen might have helped the Joker escape the police might not be so concerned with returning her safely. They weren't trained to know the complexities of the human psyche, nor could they be bothered to care about the circumstances of how the doctor could have been compromised. It was best to keep this information to herself, Dr. Leland decided, and hope that Harleen would make it back to Arkham in one piece.

* * *

  
  
The grubby house was ramshackle, unkempt for decades. The Joker waited for the train to pass before knocking on the door, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. He could have just entered but this wasn't the time for dramatics. He was relatively alone with only Zigs waiting in the car down the road. He wouldn't need any assistance, he didn't anticipate a ruckus. It wasn't strictly business...this task was also personal.   
  
A little dirt-stained face curtained in long, stringy black hair responded to his knocks.   
  
"Hello there, uh...little girl."   
  
"Natalia," she replied, staring up at him unabashedly. He had only darkened his eyes and reddened his lips and scars, but even without the white base he managed to inspire fear in those who saw him.   
  
Natalia was different. Those dark eyes had seen far worse in her short life than the likes of him. Kneeling to meet her at her level, the Joker smiled, hoping to win her over with charm since fright was clearly out of the question. She didn't look impressed. _Kids._  
  
"Is your brother home?"  
  
"Yes," she said, making way for him. He entered the house. It had been a long time; he didn't know if any of the Schiff family would recognize him...not because of any physical distinction on his part but the lives of addled brain drug addicts were prone to sudden bouts of memory loss. His boots crunched on the carpet, littered with food and the occasional bug scurrying across their wasteland of perpetual livelihood.   
  
A woman in her early forties sat on the couch, did not even look at him as he stared openly at her. Her eyes were glazed over in a heroin induced haze as they stared blankly at the daytime talk show blaring across the room. The Joker started, sensing the little girl looking at him curiously.  
  
"Come on," she said with a nod. "I'll show you."  
  
Following her lead as they maneuvered around piles of laundry, rooms pungent of animal defecation and boxes filled with meaningless junk only a junkie hoarder would find worthy of keeping, they made their way through a disgusting kitchen where every dish was scattered, unwashed and crusted over and out a back door to a junk filled yard where a small, slanting back house sat. Joker scooped Natalia up and carried her over the heaps of unknown garbage waiting to damage her tender bare feet.   
  
As a rule he didn't like children, but there was something about the single mentally competent member of this pathetic family that the Joker wanted to preserve. When he placed her down at the front door of the back house he stared down at her, watching her scratch her long, unkempt raven hair.  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
"Nine."  
  
He twisted his mouth in a dramatic grimace. "Hmm...you're a little young to join my operation, Natty, which is a shame because I could really use someone with your eyes." He cupped her dirty little chin and looked into her blank, desensitized eyes. "You got the look of a killer in you."  
  
"I killed a crow the other day," she said proudly. "It was pecking at my poor old cat."  
  
Chuckling, the Joker dropped her chin, and remembering the purpose of his visit, asked, "By the way, Natty...has anyone else come by looking for your brother?" She shook her head and he added, "No nasty Scarecrows prowling about?"  
  
Natalia went rigid, wide eyed with fear. "No, why?"  
  
"You know who I'm talking about, though, don't you?"  
  
Natalia nodded, backing into the door of her brother's little house.   
  
"Don't worry," said the Joker with a wide, wicked grin. "I'm going to make sure that bad man never comes back."  
  
Natalia beat her little fist against the door. "Thomas, your clown friend is here."  
  
"Joker, Natty," grumbled the Joker in his rarely expressed deep voice, "My name is Joker."  
  
"Joker," corrected Natalia.  
  
The door swung open and they entered the one room house. Thomas Schiff, paranoid schizophrenic and valued henchman was sitting on the floor, his thin legs pulled up to his chest and his head buried in his folded arms.  
  
"What?" he asked without lifting his head.  
  
"Natty, leave us alone," said the Joker, closing the door behind the little girl. He crouched in front his mentally ill employee and knocked on the crown of his head. "Feeling out of sorts are we?"  
  
"No," he replied. "Sorry, boss."  
  
Joker, pulling up a chair from the corner and sitting in it royally, gave Thomas a few moments before asking, "Have you talked to him?"  
  
"Talked to who?"  
  
"Buzz! Wrong answer!" cried the Joker as he quickly reached over and smacked Thomas painfully on the head. "You can't lie to me, I know too much about you!" Regaining his composure, the Joker sat back in the chair and straightened his tie. "Now, let's try this again. Have you talked to him?"  
  
"No."  
  
Knowing that Thomas was being technically truthful, the Joker couldn't help but feel there was more to it. He looked around, trying to find answers when he spotted the telephone with the built-in answering machine. A flashing light indicating a message taunted the Joker, who compulsively licked his lips and hit the play button. Lifting his head for the first time, Thomas opened his mouth but did nothing to stop the answering machine from going off.  
  
"You have seven new messages..." said the robotic tone.  
  
"Seven?" The Joker softly laughed, rolling his eyes. " _Kee-rist_ , Crane."  
  
"Thomas, I'm out. I'll call you later."  
  
_Beep._  
  
"Thomas, where are you? Pick up, it's me, Jonathan."  
  
"Oh, we're  _Jonathan_  now, are we?" cackled the Joker menacingly.  
  
_Beep._  
  
"This is extraordinarily childish, Thomas, even for you. I can't even begin to express my tremendous disappointment. Just pick up; I'm too tired for games."  
  
"You hear that, Thomas?" said the Joker. "He  _doesn't like_  games."  
  
_Beep._  
  
"Thomas, pick up the goddamn phone! I know you're not in jail because they won't keep you there; you'd be in Arkham and I just broke out of there so I know you're there! Pick up!"  
  
"Testy little thing, isn't he?" snickered the Joker, taking too much delight in Crane's increasingly agitated messages. Thomas took a deep breath, remaining silent.  
  
_Beep._  
  
"All right, I'm sorry for yelling at you, it was terribly unprofessional of me. I'm sorry. Just pick up the phone and we can talk about this like two civilized adults. Alright? Well, you obviously still need some time so I'll call back in one hour. Bye."  
  
"Can I keep this tape when we're done here?" asked the Joker between spurts of laughter. "Harley and the fellas should really hear this."  
  
_Beep._  
  
"Is that you, little girl? Are you messing around with me? You better take this phone to your brother right this minute, I mean it!" There was a pause before Crane bellowed, "Goddamnit you brat, pick up!"  
  
"Threatening a little girl, Crane?" said the Joker with the shake of his head. "Where's the challenge?"  
  
_Beep._  
  
_**"Thomas!"**_  
  
_Click._  
  
"Well, that was educational," said the Joker, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stared at his prized hired help, trying to sort out what to do next. "Why didn't you pick up?"  
  
"You told me not to," whispered Thomas.  
  
"That's right. You know why?"  
  
Thomas tilted his head, trying to remember but failed and shook his head.  
  
"Because _I'm_  the fucking boss, that's why!" shouted the Joker, pulling Thomas by his ear. "Not that pathetic, bluenose rube! He is nothing, do you understand me? Look what he did to you! You want to go back to that, Thomas? Huh? His  _little lab rat?_ "  
  
"No," whimpered Thomas, wincing in pain. Outside, the rain began to pour heavily, thunder rumbling closer.   
  
Letting him go in disgust, the Joker sat back once more and crossed his arms over his chest. "I know that unlike most of his other experiments you had some extra... _perks_...but that's no excuse to be sitting here, listening to the pitiful messages of a scorned madman with a bad case of blue-balls."  
  
Before Thomas could gather two thoughts to explain himself his phone began to ring. Tensing, Thomas stared at the Joker as he leapt to his feet and pointed at him.  
  
"Don't. Move. A. Muscle."  
  
Standing over the phone, the Joker waited until the answering machine picked up. A considerably calmer, slightly intoxicated Crane spoke.  
  
"All right...I've had something to drink...I won't yell at you this time...I am totally calm. Hey," Crane drunkenly whispered, "remember that time back in Arkham when I hid that bottle of absinthe in my lab?" Crane tittered, giving the Joker opportunity to snatch up the phone and cry in a falsetto voice,  
  
_"The wizard's not here, go away! Go away!"_  
  
"What the-" Crane cried, holding the phone away from his ear as a mad howling laughter pierced through the other end of the phone. His chest tightening, Crane reeled in his drunken stupor, his own fear becoming reality. "Fuck!" Slamming the phone on the receiver, Jonathan staggered back.  
  
"What's wrong?" asked Two-Face, watching from the other room.   
  
Shaking his head, Jonathan shut the door to his room. Two-Face stood up, having enough of the mad doctor's drama. Taking out his coin, Two-Face flipped: heads he would stay, scratched he would go.   
  
_Time to move on, Harv._  
  
  
  
"Now," said the Joker evenly as he hung up the phone. "Knowing Crane he'll be over here as soon as he sobers up...so that doesn't leave me much time to find a good place to stash you." Staring down at the trembling psychotic the Joker drummed his fingertips on his chin, thinking out loud. "I can't take you back to my place...dealing with those clowns plus Harley is a juggling act in itself...Hold the phone." Joker leered at his lackey. "I _do_ know the perfect place for you."  
  


* * *

  
  
He had been gone for hours now. All of them were still out, but it was only the Joker's presence that mattered to Harley. She finished cleaning the room up, organized it better than before, applied several layers of foil over the gaping hole in the window, cleaned the wreckage on the warehouse floor below and completed the task the Joker had given her to do in regards to their Boxy Bennett meet up. Faced with time alone, the heavy humid thunderstorm no help to her growing anxiety, Harley's mind began to drift into panic.  
  
_What if he's been caught? What if they were all caught or killed? Where did he go? Who did he go and see? Scarecrow? Two-Face? Did he go to work on something big and didn't want me to know about it? What if Batman or the police spotted him? What will happen to me? I can't live without him...  
  
_ The more Harley worried, the dizzier her thoughts became, and the tighter her chest felt, as if some invisible string kept her tied to the Joker and the longer he stayed away the harder it tugged on her insides. Needing to calm her anxiety, to feel him, to smell him, Harley took one of his dress shirts from its hanger and hugged it close to her body as she sank to her knees on the bed. Inhaling his unique scent from the garment soothed her distress but presented a new problem quickly developing in her groin. Discarding her shorts and moistened panties, Harley attempted to alleviate her arousal with all of the techniques she had mastered during her life as Harleen. Her effort was only met with disappointment; her body craved only for his aggressive attention and could not be satisfied any other way. Desperate, Harley found an answer was tucked under the pillow, her knife. Lying on her back with her legs brazenly spread, Harley plunged the knife handle into her dripping pussy.   
  
Giving herself quick, shallow jabs she then took hold of her left breast and alternated between painfully hard squeezes to rapidly working her bite-mark laden nipple. Reducing the pace of the trusts, Harley drove the knife handle deeper, crying out in the empty room, continuing with the slow, long thrusts, working her breast in a similar fashion.   
  
_Why isn't it working?_  She had been spoiled, that was it. Spoiled rotten with his attentiveness to every desire and detail of her body's needs. Spoiled to the point where she could no longer take any pleasure other than what he bestowed upon her. Not even her favorite prop would take pity on her because it was not his hands that drove it into her wanting body.  _I need him!_  
  
Squeezing her eyes shut tight in frustration, Harley grit her teeth and with both hands dangerously griped on the blade, drove the handle in as deep as she could tolerate, delving inside over and over even as the blade cut into her hand, until she was no longer giving herself pleasure but unimaginable pain as she brutally bruised herself, desperate, desperate, desperate in her longing.   
  
Screaming in pain but refusing to stop, Harley was too far gone in her delirium to hear the footsteps on the stairs or the yelling in her ear. It wasn't until her wrist was grabbed, forcing her away from herself, the knife thrown down and her body gathered limply in the Joker's arms that she opened her eyes and realized what had happened.  
  
"I don't believe this was one of the chores I told you to do, Harley-girl" the Joker said through his teeth as he violently shook her, holding out her bloodied, cut up hand. Her mouth agape but refused to join forces with her voice, Harley felt the anxiety in her chest melt away, replacing it with unrelenting adoration as she stared up at him before silently passing out.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Jonathan came out of his room Two-Face had already left. There was no good-bye, no note, and no thank you. Jervis was holed away upstairs in his laboratory for the rest of the night, leaving the rest of the loft free and empty for the sobered up Jonathan to roam. Maybe it was for the best that he was finally alone and did not have to feel guilty about being so neglectful with his fellow jailbird.   
  
As he half-heartedly walked around the apartment bare foot, his suit wrinkled from a very unexpected blackout leaving him unconscious on his bed for some hours, Jonathan stopped in front of the expansive floor to ceiling window to watch the sky crackle with lightening, starting when the doorbell unexpectedly rang. Cautiously creeping over to the front door, he kept to the side so that whoever was on the outside did not see his shadow cross over the light at the bottom of the door. Looking through the peephole, Jonathan sucked in his breath and quickly looked away, taking a deep breath before moving in front of the door and opening it.  
  
They stared at each other, neither one speaking. Jonathan kept his cool, impassive, slightly critical expression while the other young man did his typical silent fidgeting, his arms behind his back, mischievous smile never wavering even as his small eyes darted around, refusing to focus on a single spot. His dark hair glittered with dozens of raindrops sprinkled about, catching in the light of the hallway. Thomas was the first to break the silence.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Patronizingly smirking in response, Jonathan pulled the other man into the apartment and slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I debated a lot with how I was going to write Thomas and his family. If you have ever known people like this in your life you know where I am coming from when write their sheer destitution and utter indifference to someone like the Joker. 
> 
> \- bluenose means someone who is a prude, just in case you didn't know. I've been watching a lot of The Thin Man screwball murder mystery movies so Joker's slang is going to be more canon from now on probably. 
> 
> \- Harley's meltdown is something I've wanted to write for a while. She's starting to think she can't survive without the Joker and it's freaking her out. I think Harley had some problems before meeting the Joker. Do I think these problems would have crippled her in life had she not met him? Probably not. I think the Joker brought whatever insecurities she had in a minor way to the surface and made her life almost dehabilitating to exist without him. What she is experiencing in this chapter is a bout of hypersexuality - which can manifest in individuals when they go through a period of mania. 
> 
> \- The big villains play with a lot of people throughout their criminal career, preying on those weaker than them and constantly one-upping each other on the fucked up things they can do to others. Joker always tops it but I think having overlapping lackey's kind of makes things interesting. Anyone who gets involved with super villains and can't keep up are doomed to be pawns. 
> 
> \- Natalia is aptly named for a Batman villain. Look up Nocturna on Wiki.


	10. Four of Hearts: Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That spark of genius that arises when one is touched by love.

Jim Gordon stood back from the photos of the bizarre message, a strange sense of familiarity washing over him. He knew this message, had heard it before.   
 _  
"Following the leader, leader, the leader  
We're following the leader wherever he may go  
We won't be home til morning  
Because he told us so.  
We're out for fun  
This is the game we play  
Come on, join   
And sing your troubles away  
Following the leader wherever he go"  
_  
There were still some words missing, but the overall message was still intact. Each word came with a signature Joker card and either a piece of fun size candy or a razor. Luckily no one was hurt, although one kid had to be tested for poison after foolishly eating a candy. He complained it was stale but otherwise normal. Barbara, in the middle of prepping for dinner, looked over his shoulder at the photos of the pieced together message.  
  
"Peter Pan," she said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's from Peter Pan."  
 _  
That's it,_  thought Jim with a shake of his head. It was staring at him right in the face. Jim. Jr. loved that movie and watched it nonstop for about a week when he was two years old. Turning to praise his wife, Jim was startled to see a look of contempt on her face.  
  
"There were no jokers in Peter Pan," she said under her breath before turning her attention back to the vegetables she was slicing.   
  
"But it is about an obnoxious little boy who doesn't want to grow up; he wants to do is play dangerous games all the live long day."  
  
"No," Barbara gently corrected without turning back to her husband. "That's a common misconception. Even Peter believes the story is about him, but it's really about Wendy. A little girl who he enchants and talks into leaving the safety of her home on a promise of adventure. The story is about her, Jim, and the choice she has to make between the life she had always known and the new life Peter Pan gives her. A life of never growing up, never taking personal responsibility for her actions."   
  
Jim didn't like the sound of what this implied. "Barbara, what are you saying?"  
  
"I don't know," she said with a shrug of her shoulders and a grin on her face. "Guess being the Commissioner's wife, you get wise to these kinds of things."  
  


* * *

  
  
"You were  _shot_?"  
  
Thomas nodded fervently.   
  
Jonathan Crane stared wide eyed at his companion, clearly bothered by this news. Like a true hedonist, Crane sat back on a pile of pillows he stacked up behind him, making Thomas sit opposite him as they caught up on their time spent apart.   
  
"How did you get away?" asked Jonathan. He had known for some time that Thomas had been mixed up with the Joker's attacks on Gotham City, but not to what extent. Jonathan was more than upset with the Joker for using such a frail minded man to do his grunt work. Especially since Crane had Thomas in his service _first_.  
  
"I was picked up at the hospital by someone and taken home," Thomas answered with a shrug. "Everyone was too distracted to notice me." In truth, it was Marx who had taken Thomas home safely before the police could put him in county lock up.   
  
"You  _do_  realize all of this is the Joker's fault, right? The blame shouldn't go to Harvey Dent, who incidentally goes by Two-Face these days."  
  
"He's dead, Dr Crane..."  
  
"No, he is not. He was here just a few hours ago."  
  
That was a foolish thing to say and Jonathan instantly regretted casually dropping Harvey's name after Thomas had clearly been traumatized by whatever transpired between the two. Pulling at his dark wavy hair Thomas tensed up and looked around, frightened.  
  
"Is he coming back?"  
  
"Don't worry, he's no longer a problem. He's definitely not going to be bothering anyone like us anymore." This did not ease the other man's anxiety, so Jonathan reached out and brought him against his chest as he lay back on his pile of pillows. Petting his frightened lab rat behind the ear, Jonathan waited several minutes before broaching another subject. "You need to leave the Joker's employment, Thomas."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Why? He'll kill you?"  
  
"Maybe. But I can't."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He's my friend."  
  
Jonathan erupted with laughter, ignoring the look of indignation Thomas shot him.   
  
"Thomas, the Joker is incapable of being your friend. A friendship is not some lunatic holding a gun to your head shouting, dance monkey!"  
  
"I know what a friend is," Thomas grumbled.   
  
Jonathan had forgotten how difficult it was to hold a conversation with Thomas after he had chemically altered his brain several times over.   
  
"Well, I think it's only fair you tell me how you two met, then. He obviously knows that we're well acquainted." He eyed Thomas, still angry about earlier.   
  
"He doesn't know  _everything_ ," Thomas said softly with his sly smile.  
  
"He knows enough."  
  
They stared at one another knowingly before Thomas continued.  
  
"I met him a few years ago."  
  
"You were in Arkham then."  
  
"After you first released me."  
  
"Oh," replied Crane, remembering that day he stood before the board and pronounced Thomas safe as long as he was medicated. Never mind Jonathan had deliberately taken Thomas off of his meds after Thomas displayed a  _most unusual_ reaction to the fear toxin and proposed a  _very persuasive_  argument to be removed from all medications previously prescribed to him. "Are you lying again?" His only reply was that familiar, hand-in-the-cookie-jar smile. Jonathan remained silent. Thomas had a _thing_  for making up stories, but he was steadfast about keeping his mouth shut regarding the Joker.   
  
"Dr. Crane..."  
  
Jonathan smiled to himself, his pride and morbid sense of humor relishing being called Dr. Crane by a man who knew more about him on a level of intimacy Jonathan vowed never to repeat with another human being. Thomas had been a fluke, a serendipitous fluke that alleviated the hours between experimenting on the common mentally incompetent when they were both at Arkham.   
  
"Yes?" Jonathan asked as Thomas fiddled with his collar.   
  
"You have some with you, right?"  
  
Disappointed, Jonathan coldly removed Thomas's roving hand as he turned away. "Yes, of course I do."   
  
Jonathan should have seen this coming. He created this broken down man, after all. Long gone were the days of whiling away the hours at Arkham with Thomas, his ever present hanger-on, cheering on his efforts and still able to engage in thought provoking conversation. Thomas had just been diagnosed schizophrenic then... someone who had been provoked into a crime, someone who would have benefited from proper care, if truth be told but when was he ever honest with himself regarding his own mistakes?   
  
Jonathan had regretted using him so much eventually, oh, not for any misguided sense of ethics, but for the plain and selfish reason that he'd no longer have his companion ever fully intact again. And why should Jonathan be surprised now? Thomas is the son of addicts, a master at exploiting Jonathan's weaknesses for a fix. A fix he hadn't been able to get for over three and a half months...a fix that drove him so mad he joined forces with that deranged clown, even convinced himself he was the Joker's  _friend_.   
  
Jonathan opened the bedside drawer where he last placed his cylinders, little silver capsules he attached to his wrist guard that held his precious potion of panic. Sliding one out of its holster he sat up and held it up towards the light, carefully adjusting the dose, completely aware of the other man's hungry gaze against his back.  
 _If it is a fix Thomas wants...it is a fix he shall receive._  
  


* * *

  
  
Harley heard the rain pounding on the roof top in her dreamless sleep before she slowly began to regain consciousness. Her whole body felt like it had been hit by a dump truck and left in a ditch. Even her eyes felt heavy as she tried several times to open them, finally succeeding to a half-lid. She was lying in bed, nestled against the Joker who was sitting up above the covers with his legs stretched out as he read the paper, a pen in his hand to jot down the occasional barb.   
  
"Awake, I see," he said without looking at her.  
  
She opened her mouth to reply but found her throat dry and closed it, sighing as she pressed her forehead against his thigh. She noticed the Little Red Riding Hood puppet tucked in the crook of her arm and that he had dressed her in the button down dress shirt he had found her with. Something caught her eye and she looked again to see her right hand bandaged.  _Oh, yeah. Whoopsie._  
  
"You know, my little strumpet, you can be a real pain in the derriere."  
  
"I'm sorry," she whimpered. He just shook his head in response. Trying to focus on the black eye he was shading around the picture of Jonathan Crane in the evening paper he picked up on his way home, the Joker's thoughts finally began sort out the bizarre incident. It was he and Zigs who first arrived but Zigs had masterfully disappeared as soon as they entered the warehouse. When the others wandered home, awkwardly finding him carrying her down the stairs naked and unconscious, he had ordered them out for the night. They were only too happy to comply.   
  
So now his little girl had a time limit before she went into complete meltdown mode...how interesting, how disturbing,  _how hysterical_. To be sure, he had achieved his goal, she was utterly dependent on him...she couldn't make decisions; she couldn't even be left alone for an afternoon. It was marvelous. And soon, very soon, he would put her to the final test, her public debut. The thought was enough to put a smile on his face as he continued to deface Jonathan Crane's picture and article.

  
Resting her head against him appreciatively she asked, "How was your day?"

"Very interesting," he replied. "Gordon and Gotham's finest are scurrying to piece together my egg message, Two-Face is nowhere to be found and Crane is driving himself mad with petty personal problems." He tickled her swollen cheek and behind her ear as he laughed deeply. "Remind me to play a tape for you once we get a cassette player in here." He handed her the society column of Gotham Times. "Read this." When he realized she was reading to herself, he knocked two knuckles atop her head. "Out loud, dingbat."

  
"Oh, sorry," she tittered. "Ah-hem. New York socialite turned Gotham resident entrepreneur du jour Boxy Bennett," Harley and the Joker eyed each other knowingly, "will be celebrating his thirtieth birthday this Sunday at the ultra-chic, gentry-posh Iceberg Lounge. Don't let the club's cool name fool you, though. The exclusive nightclub promises to give Boxy the hottest, most glamorous birthday that can't be topped. Sorry, potential party crashers: this birthday bash is invite-only!"

"Ignore that last line, my pet. Boxy is simply  _dying_  for our attendance," replied the Joker. 

Smiling up at him, Harley felt a little braid lightly tap her face. He had put her hair up the way he liked it. Stretching her arms out around his waist she looked up at him with her bright, blue eyes.

"You're so funny, Mister J."

"Hm," he replied noncommittally, one arm idly draped around her, fingers lightly caressing the raised bruised covered flesh, thumb tracing the heart scarification on the back of her shoulder. 

Letting him alone with his paper, Harley lost herself in her thoughts, more pleasant than earlier.  _God, I'm so lucky to have him. He takes such good care of me, even when he gets angry he is quick to pick up the pieces of me, his little girl._ Harley truly, madly loved him. 

  
Reflexively tensing as he felt light pressure against his abdomen, the Joker looked down to see Harley unbutton the last three buttons of his shirt and press her lips to his flat stomach.   
 _Always touching me,_  he thought with mild disgust over all of the physical contact he had with her over a very short period of time. She needed to learn to appreciate what he gave her and be happy with that. 

  
Placing a hand tentatively on her head with the intention of pushing her away, he briefly reconsidered, feeling her teeth graze his skin and her tongue dart devilishly in and out of his navel. Instead he opted to ignore her, knowing that would eventually drive her batty. His plan worked well until he felt her mouth descend past the waistband of his trousers, her bandaged hand gripping his far side suspender.

_What a naughty, ill-mannered little girl._

"Harley," he said warningly. Hitting her head with the newspaper, expecting her to stop, he was furious to see her openly ignore him.  _"Harley."_

Without a word, Harley straddled him, tightly gripping his suspenders, but heeded the dangerous warning and moved her attention back to his abdomen. Glaring down at her, the Joker let it go and tried to go back to his paper for a third time. It was no use; she had his attention; her playful nips soon turned into ravenous bites across his stomach, little hungry moans escaping her lips between bites. It maddened him that this simpleton could command his body's attention, infuriated him really. 

Harley felt his strong hand pushing her head down, not away like she had expected it to. Assuming he was giving her permission, with a greedy little cry she unfastened his trousers and received a nose full of kneecap. Blinking as she found herself crumpled on the floor beside the bed, stars and spots dancing before her eyes, Harley gingerly touched her nose. It was bleeding, but otherwise still in place. The Joker was laughing at her folly and she nervously joined in until a terrible clap of thunder shook the entire warehouse as it suddenly fell into darkness.

"Hmm..." mused the Joker, feeling under the bed until he pulled out a utility lighter, a souvenir from Harley's apartment. "Stay here," he said as he got up and went downstairs. 

Harley felt around the floor for her purse and pulled out a tissue, hoping to stop the blood from her nose by the time he returned. Plugging her nose up with the tissue lest she get any on the shirt he so kindly lent her, Harley pulled her knees up to her chest and remained on the floor until he returned. 

Grumbling to himself as he rummaged through boxes of novelty candles, the Joker almost regretted sending the others away for the night. They dealt with nonsense like power outages and short circuits. Not that he couldn't handle it himself, but he'd be damned if he was going to tromp around in the dark and rain. Messing up his threads...no siree.   
Stuffing three tacky Catholic themed candles under his left arm, the Joker was about the head upstairs when something sticking out of a box caught his eye. With his free hand he pulled out an oversized wooden lollipop. Even with only the meager flame the Joker could make out the gaudy yellow, pink, green and purple stripes that swirled around the tacky prop, not to mention the blue and pink striped molded bow at the lollipop's base. He swung it in front of him, the air breaking with a satisfying  _whoosh_. Well. The electricity may be out, but that was no reason he couldn't still have some fun.   
  


* * *

  
  
"Shit," Jonathan hissed under his breath, making an effort not to wake Thomas. Sitting at the foot of his bed late Sunday morning, Jonathan pulled out his laptop that Jervis had confiscated before the police had the chance to, and after connecting to Jervis's wireless, tried to login to his online bank account. He had been gone for more than ninety days, however, and the security of the server did not permit such a lengthy lapse in login times. Jonathan would have to call the bank to confirm his identity in order to access his funds.  _Not so easy when one has been declared criminally insane, not to mention wanted for murder.  
_  
Cursing his ego for not being able to even entertain the thought of one day being caught, Jonathan shut down the computer and gently laid it on the floor. It wasn't as if he was completely broke; his safety deposit box was also rescued, in it a few thousand dollars. Pennies on the dollar compared to what he really needed. Flopping back on the bed in frustration, he accidentally woke Thomas up.   
  
"What are you going to do now?" Thomas asked, running his big toe against Jonathan's ear. He had been awake, silently listening to Jonathan's mumbled cursing.

"Start from scratch. Make money all over again...start the process over." Jonathan sighed. It wasn't going to be easy. Maybe he ought to forgo sullying his hands with actual drug trade and think of bigger, faster ways to produce the funds he would need to make more fear toxin. "Do you think if I asked him nicely the Joker would rob my bank?"

"Mmm...yes, but he would keep your money."

"I figured as much."

"You could do it yourself."

"Something that big?"

"Why not?"

Jonathan never thought about it before; all of the money he ever needed was provided by legitimate means. For the most part, anyway. Thomas sat up and ran his long fingers through his messy black hair.

"I have to go."  
  
"Wait, why?" Jonathan whipped his head around, watching the younger man pick his shirt off the floor and pull it over his head.  
  
"I just have to."  
  
Sneering, Jonathan glared at Thomas as he put on his socks and shoes. Jonathan wanted to keep him here but knew it was impossible and impractical to continue his attachment. Painfully torn in two, Jonathan waited until Thomas's hand was on the door handle before jumping up from the bed and diving between Thomas and the door.  
  
"Wait. I'll drive you home."  
  
"Really?" asked Thomas, a clouded suspicion in his eyes.  
  
"Yes, I promise."  
  
Thomas seemed to mull it over before reluctantly giving in. "All right. I guess I can stay for a little while longer...since you'll drive me home."  
  
It was all Jonathan could do to keep the smug on his face and the relief hidden within. 

* * *

  
  
"Harder?"  
  
"Y-yes."  
  
"Are you _suuuuure_?" asked the Joker with a grin.  
  
"Yes," Harley panted.  
  
"All righty," replied the Joker, waiting until Harley braced herself before wrapping the laces around his palms once more and pulled as tight as they would go, emitting a breathless shriek from Harley.   
  
"OK, OK!" she cried, wincing in pain. Skillfully, the Joker finished tying her corset, and with a satisfactory smug smile, spanked her pert bottom.  
  
"You're going to be a big hit, Harley-girl."  
  


* * *

  
  
Jonathan kept his promise to Thomas, and after deliberately taking a slower pace to filing away at Dr. Arkham's license plate before reattaching it, drove him home late that afternoon.   
  
"This isn't your car," said Thomas over the wind whipping through the windows of the small sports car. He would have preferred the air conditioner but Jonathan insisted on at least keeping the windows rolled down since Thomas refused to get in when the convertible top was down. Jonathan did not realize how much he had missed his freedom until he felt that warm, summer wind at fifty miles per hour in a thirty five mile zone.  
  
"It is now," replied Jonathan, a smirk on his face. As they neared the train yard, Jonathan began to reduce his speed, feeling their time together coming to an end. He parked at the curve of the cul de sac where the Schiff house stood opposite. They sat together in tense silence before Jonathan finally spoke his thoughts. "When can you come back?"  
  
"I don't know. Things are picking up."

"Thomas, I really don't think you..." Jonathan stopped, unable to look at this shadow of a man anymore. Jonathan wanted to warm him, express his deep concerns about Thomas's continuing involvement with plans beyond his current state of mental capabilities, not only as a friend but in his own professional opinion. It was futile, though. Everything about them was utterly futile. Hanging his head, his sweaty hands tightly gripped on the steering wheel, Jonathan merely nodded in acceptance. "Just come back when you can, all right?"

Ever absentminded, Thomas smiled and replied, "Sure thing, Dr. Crane." With a quick, unexpected lick to Jonathan's ear, Thomas left the car and walked towards his house without a second glance back. 

Waiting until Thomas had disappeared behind the dilapidated fence, Jonathan repeatedly slammed his hands against the steering wheel.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _fuck!"  
_

* * *

  
  
As soon as the sun set they were on the road, taking both cars with Harley, Joker and Roach in the gunmetal SUV and the other three plus two more that were picked up along the way in the black car. From the back seat the Joker was giving instructions to Roach.  
  
"Marx and I are going to visit the proprietor, Mr. Cobblepot, first to make sure he knows this is a  _friendly_  visit and doesn't get any silly ideas about calling the police. After Harley finishes her number we will make our entrance and have a nice business meeting with Boxy Bennett."  
  
"So...no looting the guests?" asked Roach as he fiddled with the clown mask in his lap. He was wanted in other states, and didn't like showing his face during the more public jobs they pulled.   
  
"If opportunity arises, who am I to stop you? Although you might find it difficult...seeing as how you're going to be guarding the cars."  
  
"Aw, nuts," mumbled Roach under his breath.   
  
Harley drove past the front of the elite nightclub, marveling at the long red carpet rolled out in front, a sea of paparazzi snapping photos at every glamorous, vapid smile and dapper chump that was admitted into the restricted soiree.   
  
"Turn into the alley," instructed the Joker as he put on his purple leather gloves and buckled them accordingly. "Park in the back of the building behind the Lounge." Harley did as she was told, the other SUV waiting for them with five clown masked criminals eagerly awaiting their arrival.  
  
"This is it? Just the seven of us are going to hold up over one hundred people?" asked an unknown clown to the Joker.  
  
Frowning at the man's doubt, the Joker promptly shot him in the head and watched him crumple to the ground.  
  
"No. Just the _six_  of us are going to hold up over one hundred people." He flashed Harley as toothy of a grin as his scars would permit. "Shall we?"  
  
With a tiny squeak of delight, Harley took his offered arm as the Joker led the way into the back of the building where another group of masked clown goons were waiting. The Joker gave Harley a look of mock aghast.

"Of course, I completely forgot about these fellows we hired. I guess it is more than six. Oh, well!"  
  
Disappointed he was missing out, Roach sat morosely in the drivers seat of the black car.   
  
The Joker and his followers let themselves in the back entrance, killing one beefy bouncer along the way. With the henchmen in the silent halls, the Joker and Harley found their way to the dressing room where a startled showgirl was fixing her over the top curly hair do. After making sure Harley successfully bound and gagged the unfortunate performer, the Joker gave her an affectionate pinch on her cheek.  
  
"Good job. See you on the dance floor."  
  


* * *

  
  
Oswald Cobblepot sat at his private booth on the mezzanine, strategically located in the corner so he had a bird's eye view of the goings on of his beloved night club. Hosting Mr. Bennett's thirtieth birthday bash was going to bring in a lot of new contacts for his second trade, bartering information for large sums of money and other favors from the new crime bosses. Everything was going smoothly; no paparazzi had snuck in, no unwanted miscreants in sight and above all else, the birthday boy was having a grand time below.  
  
"Excuse me," cackled a grating voice, disrupting Oswald's attention from the party goers below. He turned to the offender only to come eye to eye with the barrel of a shotgun. The surprise wore off right away as Oswald stared up at the loudly dressed and made up Arkham escapee, the Joker.  
  
"Yes?" asked Oswald calmly, raising a brow.

"You should get your money back, my good man," said the Joker, tipping the barrel at Oswald's monocle. "You only got half your peepers there."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Joker," said Oswald, pulling on his tuxedo lapels in fury. "But this is a monocle."  
  
"I know," said the Joker as he sidled into the chair across from Oswald, removing his gun from the restaurateur's face. "I was just joshing you."  
  
"To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Mr. Joker?" asked Oswald after a few moments of tense silence. "I would have thought the Iceberg Lounge too high brow for your liking."

"Normally, Ozzy, you would be oh so right," said the Joker, pointing rudely with his elbows on the table. "But, y'see my little friend Boxy Bennett down there didn't get my change of address card and he didn't know where to send my invitation to his birthday party. So here I am!"  
  
"If your business is with Mr. Bennett, why are you here with me?"  
  
"Come on, Ozzy. You know how the drill goes. I bust in with my clown goons, we're waving our boomsticks around, you get the wrong impression and call the boys in blue. I thought I would just save everyone the trouble by letting you know first that we're here." The Joker leaned in, licked his lips and added, "I don't plan on using any guns tonight, if it eases your mind."  
  
Oswald knew he had no choice in the matter. Oh, well. Once word leaked out that the infamous Joker had visited the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald could finally justify doubling the cover charge. After all, who wouldn't pay top dollar to be at one of the famed criminal's crime scenes? The media hype alone was enough to make Oswald imagine the faint sound of a cash register's  _ka-ching_. Suddenly wanting his unexpected guest to feel immensely welcomed, Oswald turned on the charm.  
  
"Would you like a drink, Mr. Joker?"  
  
"Not on the job, Ozzy."  
  
Oswald tried not to shudder at the vile nickname.  
  
"You have my word as one businessman to another that I won't interfere. Why aren't you talking to Mr. Bennett now?"  
  
"I want to watch the floor show first."  
  
Oswald chuckled knowingly. "Appreciation for the fine art of vintage burlesque, Mr. Joker?"  
  
The Joker's grin silently widened in response.  
  


* * *

  
  
"You know," said Harley as she slipped on her red satin ruched high heels, using the shoulder of the bound and gagged dancer for balance. "He's really not all that bad." Adjusting her ruffled garters and mismatching red and black opera length gloves, Harley continued to prattle. "Sure, people like you only get to see the tough guy side but there's so much more to him than that. He's got layers, y'know?" She looked at the tied up woman for confirmation. 

 _This is the last time I book mob jobs,_  the woman bitterly thought as she nodded at the daffy dame.   
  
"Like my fan?" asked Harley, waving a specially woven oversized fan of red and black ostrich plumes from the box she had found in the warehouse. "I think yours is nice, too, but these are special feathers." She waved the fan in front of the dancer, giggling until she was startled by a knock.  
  
"Five minutes, Avis."

"All right," Harley cheerfully cried back. "I'm all nervous. Here, I'm gonna put my bag on your vanity - oops, sorry, I didn't mean to drop your make up bag." Harley placed her bulky messenger bag on the vanity as she tried to scoop down to pick up the fallen make up bag. Realizing the corset was not going to permit her to bend at the waist, she squatted instead. "Heh, it's been a long time since I've had to bend properly. OK, got your stuff. What am I forgetting?" She tapped her freshly red painted nails on the vanity instead of her chin as usual, as it was given a new kind of make over especially for tonight. "Oh, my mask!" Digging through her bag she took out a red she-devil mask with horns, a smattering of sparkles and black beads that dangled from its side. "You like it? OK, I better go now. Wish me luck!" Picking up her fan, Harley dashed out the door towards the stage.  
  
The house lights were lowered and the emcee's voice announced the floor show. Guests gathered close to their tables as the live orchestra, perched on a mock iceberg in the center of the club, struck up the tune of Cab Calloway's 1931 classic  _Minnie the Moocher_.   
  
"That's not Avis," declared a startled Oswald, rising from his seat only to have the butt of Marx's gun firmly push him back down to his seat.  
  
"Oh, sorry," said the Joker. "I, uh, asked her to take the night off." The Joker smiled at Oswald, shrugging with a dramatic eye roll. "The ball and chain wanted to go dancing tonight. Dames. Go figure, huh?"  
  
A dancer Harley was not, but the skills and grace that years of gymnastics instilled within her paid off as she made a sultry gyration around the stage, eventually stepping off the stage and making her way through the tables, teasing the patrons with her luscious glittery crimson lips, tickling men behind their ears with her feathered fan, rotating her apple round bottom tauntingly as she tempted but never permitted a touch, rhythmically making her way to the center table where Boxy Bennett sat flanked by two burly bodyguards.

Keeping his devilish eyes on the enchanting she-devil, Boxy softly bobbed his head to the Jazz song, watching as the seductress made her way to him, each hip suggestively swaying in his direction as she came closer. Despite the allure of her figure revealing red and black outfit, it was her hair that caught his amusement. It was swept up into two high buns with a small braid dangling out from each side. Kind of like a court jester's hat. Not the typical ringlets and finger curls of yesteryear. Her feet firmly planted on the ground in Boxy's line of vision, Harley kept her eyes on him as she shook her fan with one hand and removed a single red feather, switching hands and doing the same to a black feather. As the song was about to climax, Harley dropped the fan, and raised the two feathers high into the air as she stepped directly in front of Boxy, shaking her black and red tail feathers.   
  
 _"Poor Min, poor Min!"_  
  
In one grand sweeping motion, Harley twisted the feathers in her fingers and viciously stabbed each bodyguard in the throat. Before anyone could register the horror of what had just occurred, a gunshot rang out.  
  
"That imbecile promised me no guns!" Oswald Cobblepot hissed from his position at his table where Marx kept a heavy eye on him.  
  
"Sorry to interrupt the festivities," said the Joker in a calm but loud enough voice to be heard by everyone in the Iceberg Lounge. Several of Boxy's guests were part of his organization and reached for their guns, but one quick look around the perimeter of the massive room and they realized they were greatly at a disadvantage, surrounded by a dozen gun toting men in clown masks.   
  
In the coat check room a young woman with long, curling dark hair stopped her act of larceny to quietly make a swift exit through the crawl space from whence she entered from.  
  
"You've got a lot of nerve, clown!" spat Boxy, his Beretta aimed at the Joker as his other hand gripped Harley's upper arm tightly.   
  
"I just like putting on a good show," said the Joker with a shrug. "Look, I even brought you a birthday present." He nodded towards Harley, who smiled sweetly at Boxy. "You can't keep her, of course. She's a rental."  
  
"What do you want?" asked Boxy nervously as the Joker calmly approached his table and, pulling out the chair from the dead bodyguard so that the oafish body fell with a satisfying thud to the floor, sat down.   
  
"This is a party, Mr. Bennett! Tell your guests to relax so we can have our conversation in peace. Band!" barked the Joker. "Play on!"  
  
The band leader struck up a Glenn Miller tune, much to the Joker's amusement. "See? That's better."  
  
Boxy motioned for his thugs to do nothing and after letting Harley go, he sat down, tucking his Beretta back into its sheath inside his jacket.  
  
"Go change for your next number, honey," said the Joker without looking at Harley. Out of the corner of his eye Boxy watched Harley trot off cheerfully without a single word. "Bennett," cried the Joker with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "You got style and I like it. So let's be temporary business partners."  
  
"You want to get into racketeering and casinos?" asked Boxy confusedly.   
  
"No, no, no. I just want you to shut your trap-" the Joker tossed him wind up novelty chattering teeth, sharp razors sticking out behind the plastic white teeth - "and let me do the talking. Kay?"   
  
Boxy cried out, smacking the teeth away with the palm of his hand before it took a chunk out of him. The Joker remained unaffected.  
  
"You see, Boxy, I need to reach the people. The real people of Gotham, not the fake, overly cultured elite," he waved offhandedly at Boxy's guests. "Although, if my message reaches them then who am I to get in the way of progress? Anyway. What the _real_ people of Gotham needs is a barker on the vaudeville show of madness, and while I'm more than experienced on the subject, I need someone who has access to various...mediums of communication."  
  
"How can I help?" asked Boxy tersely.  
  
"I'm glad you asked! Y'see, Boxy," the Joker leaned in, waiting for Boxy to do the same. "This is your cue to do as I am." After Boxy leaned in the smile returned to the Joker's face. "The men I hire aren't, uh, exactly the sharpest knives in the cabinet. You know? Don't get me wrong, the wheels are turning...but the hamster is dead. I'm sure you have run into similar problems with the hired help. But you also hire smart people and I just don't have that kind of employee training time. Because then I have to go through the resume and interview process, go on team building retreats where we share all of our secrets, and frankly that's just too exhausting. It's just easier to mooch off your resources."  
  
Boxy couldn't follow what the Joker was saying. His deeper meaning was hidden behind his warped sense of humor as he was obviously deliberately being vague on what he wanted to accomplish. It was clear that the Joker wanted to achieve something, he just did not want to let Boxy in on it. Let him and his men do all of the grunt work.  
  
"What's in it for me?" asked Boxy, disregarding the danger to ask in such a position.   
  
"A very big name on your client registry, wouldn't you say?"  
  
Boxy hadn't thought of it from this perspective. True, the supposed Clown Prince of Crime had a more explosive way of getting his message across...but he was apparently changing tactics. He needed Boxy's intelligent wise guys after all, that counted for something. The boys back home would be impressed. His new gang would be impressed, too. Working with a madman was nothing Boxy had envisioned for his career in Gotham City but who knows? Maybe he could teach the Joker a new trade...maybe the clown would stop trying to blow up potential good business.   
  
"And if I refuse?"  
  
The Joker furrowed his brow but kept his smile on his face. "I don't see that happening."  
  
Boxy tensed and remained silent. A slight whoosh in the air caused his attention to divert away from the Joker as a blur of red and black flipped its way over to their table. A petite woman in a black and red harlequin catsuit stood at his table, immaculate white face paint, and stark black lips to match her black domino mask across her big, blue eyes. It was the clowny hair do that gave her away as the dancer from earlier.  
  
"Hey there, sugar," Boxy said to Harley, eyeing her lewdly. "You come with the deal?" He reached out for her but she swatted his hand away, smirking as she stood behind the Joker's chair.  
  
"Harley," the Joker chided, "You're being rude to Mr. Bennett. Play nice."   
  
Harley extended her arm, offering her black gloved hand to Boxy, who accepted it and kissed her hand. What were two brainless bodyguards for this dangerous beauty anyway?  
  
"Come drop by my joint, McGinty's, any ol' time, honey."  
  
Harley was careful to keep her face impassive, fearful if she smiled she would invoke the wrath of Mister J later on. She remembered the moment of terror when he accused her of becoming too friendly with the police officer the other night. The Joker eyed the exchange expressionlessly. Standing up the Joker gestured to his goons and pushed his chair in.   
  
"I've kept you from your guests far too long, Boxy."  
  
Bewildered, Boxy looked up at the Joker and asked, "How will I know what you want when you want it?"   
  
"Oh, don't worry, I have your number," replied the Joker as he walked away towards the back entrance.   
  
"Then why go to the trouble of crashing my party?" grumbled Boxy to himself as he watched the rest of the masked clown goons slowly back away from the room, keeping their guns aimed at Boxy and his guests.   
  
"Say goodnight, Harley," the Joker said as he hopped on the stage and made his way towards the back entrance. Twirling on her heels, Harley blew three exaggerated stage kisses towards   
the audience, saving the last for Boxy's direction.   
  
"Goodnight, Harley!"  
  


* * *

  
After parting ways with the hired help, the Joker's usual suspects briskly walked down the alley back to the cars. Arbuckle could not help but cast a glance of unadulterated hate towards Harley, who was cartwheeling ahead of them.  
  
 _All of that work and man power for two bodies that she gets the credit for? The batty broad is officially making the boss go soft.  
  
_ A young paparazzi for a gossip rag was relieving himself against the building, startled to see a group of clownish rogues walk past him, oblivious to his presence. Quickly taking care of business and zipping himself up, he flattened himself against the side of the building and cautiously peeked around towards the back.   
  
A black SUV drove off into the street at the other end of the alley, startling the young man as he took several deep breaths before taking another peek. To the young photojournalist's amazement and horror, he recognized the Joker talking with a girl in a crazy harlequin outfit as they stood beside a gunmetal colored sports utility vehicle. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he quietly picked up his camera and managed to snap a single picture before the car door was slammed and the SUV sped off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks as always for reading, everyone!  
> \- Don't even get me started on Peter Pan because I could write a whole dissertation on its themes. I'm a huge fan of the 2003 version. That cast could not have been more perfectly constructed. Another "children's" story that I find correlating with the Joker & Harley.   
> \- Sorry, Scarequeer fans but no filthy scenes for him. (Scarequeer: Damn you!)  
> \- love me some Cab Calloway. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mq4UT4VnbE   
> \- Joker calls himself a "barker" which is an old circus/carnival occupation of someone who would stand outside an event and entice people to spend a nickel or dime for the show within. They're typically loud, fast and descriptive with their words.   
> \- If you don't know who Boxy Bennett is, he is from B:TAS "Harlequinade"   
> \- I am using the later DCAU episodes for the basis of my Oswald Cobblepot. That's Penguin for those of you who don't know.  
> \- Oh I wonder who was prowling about the coat check room....


	11. Queen of Clubs: Vulnerability

The Joker was on the phone with Boxy Bennett that Monday afternoon. "Oh, I don't know how many," said the Joker in his swivel chair with Harley on his knee, giggling as he tickled her with his free hand. "Ten thousand each." He flinched as Boxy cried out in rage. "I don't care what it costs, Mr. Bennett. You're a smart man. I'm sure you can recoup the money in no time. Have a Monte Carlo night at your little speakeasy!"  
  
"I'm assuming you want my man power for this crazy scheme too, Joker," growled Boxy through gritted teeth. The Joker did not reply to this at first, directing his attention his moll as Boxy heard him say, "Stop that, Harley. Daddy's on the phone!"   
 _  
Sicko,_  thought Boxy, still nursing a grudge and hard-on for the delectable blonde.  
  
"Assuming only makes an ass out of you and me. But yes, in this case you would be right."  
  
The Joker laughed as Boxy grumbled a few choice words on the other end of the phone. Spinning in the chair, the long cord wrapping around him and Harley, the Joker stopped paying attention to Boxy's ranting and raving.   
  
"Yes, that will do, Mr. Bennett. I'll be sending over one of my associates to check up on your progress sometime tomorrow. I expect the entire project to be done by Tuesday night."  
  
"Tomorrow? You're crazy, clown. You can't expect me-"  
  
"Oh, would you look at the time? I'd love to sit here and chat all day Boxy, but you have a busy thirty-six hours ahead of you. Burning the midnight oil and all that. Anyway, I simply must dash. Places to explode, people to kill. You know how it goes. Ta." The Joker pulled the phone away from his ear, intending to hang it up but discovered he had tangled himself and Harley up from all of the spinning.  
  
On the other end, fuming with rage, Boxy Bennett heard the Joker say "Well, shit," with Harley's maniacal giggling following. A terrific crash, promptly followed by a hard click and a dial tone later, Boxy rolled his eyes as he slammed his cell phone shut.  
  
"Freaks."  
  
"He probably thinks once he does this favor for you that you're just going to disappear," said Zigs as he walked into the kitchenette with an empty mug.   
"That's half the fun," replied the Joker, knocking piles of papers onto the floor for Harley to continuously pick up, which she did obediently.   
  
"You know that the cost of paper went up since all of those attacks on Gotham Logging Enterprises?"   
  
"Now that has nothing to do with me," the Joker insisted. "Chalk that up to, uh, bad timing."  
  
Zigs scrubbed the coffee stains out of his mug at the sink, eyeing the Joker with a malicious gleam. "Gonna cost Boxy Bennett a pretty penny making up  _thirty thousand_  papers."  
  
"Indeed it will," cackled the Joker mercilessly.   
  


\-------------------------

  
  
"Jimmy!" barked Mr. Levin, editor in chief of  _Asteroid_  tabloid journal specializing in the busy, glamorous lives of celebrities and socialites.  
  
Jimmy quickly ran to the closed in cubicle office of Mr. Levin, smiling through his nerves. God, he hated Mondays. "Yes, Mr. Levin?"  
  
"What the hell is this you put on my desk?" Mr. Levin was waving around a manila folder.  
  
"My photographs from the night of Boxy Bennett's birthday party."  
  
"I told you rookies to stick to the red carpet. Who told you to go off and waste company resources on this psychopath? Not that anyone can tell if it's him or not considering the shit lighting. When people reach for the gossip rags they don't want to be reminded of dozens of people dying at the hands of some maniac killer! Nobody cares about him; they only want to see him rot in hell."  
  
"Sir," said Jimmy, sitting down opposite of Mr. Levin. "I beg to differ. First of all, it was him. I nearly shat my pants. Secondly, he's a criminal who affected so many citizens of Gotham. People are outraged and scared out of their minds that he escaped Arkham. And for that matter, it would catch the eye of people who normally pass up the  _Asteroid_. They see a story on the Joker, panic and buy the paper out of terror...and bam! New readers!"  
  
"You got a point there, kid." Mr. Levin grumbled. "All right, we'll run with it. But only a quarter page and nothing more!"  
  
"Yes, sir!" Jimmy jumped up from his chair, eager to get back to his desk before Mr. Levin changed his mind.  
  
"Oh, and Jimmy?" Mr. Levin waited until Jimmy turned to look at him. "If this Joker guy just so happens to come across your little angle on him don't think for an instant that I'm gonna cover for your ass."  
  
Jimmy laughed. "No offense, Mr. Levin, but I seriously doubt the Joker reads the gutter press."  
  


\----------------------------------------

  
  
By Tuesday afternoon, the rumor mill was buzzing that there had been a scare at the Iceberg Lounge, and considering the birthday boy that in itself was not unexpected, but when certain guests were pressed for details the Joker's name started to whisper about, along with reports of larceny.  
  
"My Gucci purse was stolen from the coat room!" a young woman who spent one too many hours at the tanning salon told Summer Gleeson, the only reporter in Gotham pursuing the rumor.   
  
"Both Mr. Bennett and Mr. Cobblepot are denying the allegations that the Joker was present," continued Summer. "Viewers may recall that entrepreneur Boxy Bennett turned thirty this past Sunday. Mr. Bennett recently moved to Gotham from New York City and is the owner of restaurant and bar McGinty's."  
  
 **"MCGINTY'S!"**  the crowd in the deep green and dark wood decorated McGinty's cheerfully cried, holding their drinks up in a toast for the restaurant. Boxy remained still, his dark brown eyes staring at a large man sitting at the bar. He had been sent over by the Joker to see that things were moving along accordingly. Boxy debated killing him but figured the Joker would just send someone else in his place. At least the burly, bald man didn't seem even half as crazy as his employer.   
  
"What are you gonna do about that?" asked the man who introduced himself as Arbuckle, gesturing with his glass of scotch at the big screen television above the bar.  
  
"It's only the media that thinks the Joker was there," answered Boxy. "Oswald Cobblepot said one cop came by to ask a few questions, but once he denied the story the cop took off." Boxy hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Pretty low of your boss to let his lackeys boost some of my guest's belongings."  
  
"Wasn't us," said Arbuckle with finality. "Anything in that coat room would have been small peanuts; he's not about that." Examining his glass before taking a drink, Arbuckle added, "Then again, I'm not so sure what he is about these days."  
  
This piqued Boxy's curiosity. "The clown's losing his touch?"  
  
"Don't get me wrong, I like my job and I've always enjoyed working for the Joker. And I know we're supposed to be living in the twenty-first century and all that liberal mumbo jumbo but you know what? At the end of the day? This is still a man's world."  
  
Smirking, Boxy ordered another drink for Arbuckle, compliments of the house.   
  


\-----------------------------------------------

  
  
Enjoying a rare afternoon of mundane chores, Roach hungrily dove into the box of donuts and greedily took out the extra éclair he bought for himself. Taking an inappropriately large bite, the creamy filling dripping on his chin and sidewalk alike, Roach continued down towards the car when he passed a news-stand and decided to treat himself to an issue of  _WIRED_. Or  **MAD**. Both. Roach felt like splurging. His entire criminal childhood had taught him to horde every cent he looted and the miserly ways of his traveler parents were still embedded deep within him.   
Carefully balancing  _WIRED_  on top of his box of donuts, Roach lowered his head to browse through the magazine's contents just as something caught his eye. Alarm going off in his brain, Roach lunged at the offending tabloid journal that had caught his attention, the donuts and magazines going topsy-turvy onto the pavement below.  
It was a small blurb, right at the bottom left hand corner but Roach's careful eyes had caught it nonetheless.   
  
 **"WHO IS THE JOKER'S HENCH WENCH?"**  
  
  
"...all vehicles were completely destroyed in the fire. The Gotham Police Department have said there is no direct link between the attacks, only that the targets appear to be limited to sports utility vehicles, vans, and trucks. Public speculation suggests the fires are eco-motivated but as to suspects the GPD are not commenting at this time. Back to you, Rick."  
  
Zigs dully flipped through the stations. He normally loathed television but it was part of his job to scour the media for possible Joker coverage. Gotham was reeling from catastrophe everywhere it turned; the Joker's bizarre stunts and messages were buried under a pile of acts of eco-terrorism, celebrity gossip, the weather, and a rise in burglaries.   
Roach came into the warehouse looking nervous as he tightly gripped the box of donuts, his magazines rolled underneath his right arm.  
  
"Finally," said Zigs, holding out his hands to take the box. Roach handed it to him, keeping his eyes fixed on the loft above them.  
  
"Where is everyone?"  
  
"Marx is visiting his girlfriend, Harley drove Joker out to the Schiff house, and Fatty is babysitting Boxy Bennett," said Zigs, grimacing as he got jelly stains on his fingers just from opening the box. The donuts were all clumped together on one side as if they had been tossed around. "You get into a car accident?" Zigs started as the  _Asteroid_  was suddenly thrust in front of his eyes. Adjusting his focus, Zigs knitted his brows and looked up. "What? Are you incensed that she's a lesbian now or that nobody is calling her fire crotch anymore?"  
  
Roach raised the gossip rag higher so that the Joker blurb was directly in front of Zigs line of vision.  
 _  
"Oh shit."_  Zigs grabbed the Asteroid and flipped it to the offending page. It was a small photograph, grainy with poor lighting. He could tell it was the Joker and Harley, but he figured that was because he knew them and was present. He read the paragraph below the photo: _"Who is the mystery woman seen here with the notorious criminal the Joker in a downtown Gotham dark alley? A helpless hostage? A link to his unknown past? Or a Bonnie to his Clyde? Is this merry mime the girlfriend of the Clown Prince of Crime?!"_ Zigs looked at Roach, wide eyed with rarely displayed fear. "Trash that man, and make sure he don't ever see it! _Ever!_ You got me?"  
  


\--------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
"Isn't it beautiful?" cackled the Joker as they drove around Gotham City at four in the morning Wednesday. Boxy was slightly late on delivery, but the execution were well worth the wait. Gotham City was papered in sepia toned  **WANTED**  posters similar to the kind found in the Old West. There was not a tree, building, or lamppost that wasn't safe from the flyers.   
  
"It's genius, Mister J," Harley sighed dreamily, permitted to sit next to him in the back seat while Zigs drove to admire the results of Boxy's favor. Roach was sleeping in the front passenger seat, lightly snoring.   
  
"Where do we go from here, boss?" asked Zigs.   
  
"We start using all of those wonderful toys you men have been working on so tirelessly while I was away. Since he's a wanted man now, the Batman isn't going to come after me so easily this time around. He's going to let me play my tricks until I cause some real damage. So we'll play for a little while more."  
  
"And what about the others? Dent and Crane?"  
  
"Crane is his own worst enemy right now," replied the Joker with a menacing giggle. "As long as I keep sending our mutual friend over he'll be too distracted to steal my spotlight. And what do I have to worry about Two-Face for? By all accounts of Gotham officials, he's dead! No use fearing a dead man."  
  


\---------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
"What do you make of it?" asked Gordon when he knew he was no longer alone in his office. He was looking out the window down at the street below as dozens of people stopped their morning commute to gaze in confusion and horror at the  **WANTED**  posters pasted all over. City workers were diligently scurrying to clean up the mess.   
  
"It only makes sense to him," said the Batman gruffly. Underneath the mask, Bruce was aching to sleep. He had been following a lead on the eco-terrorist that turned cold, and on his way back through the heart of Gotham he was astounded to discover the flurry of  **WANTED**  posters littered all over the city center. He was annoyed to discover the posters all over Wayne Tower as well.  
  
"So you think the Joker did this?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Could have been Boxy Bennett or someone other new wise guy on the rise."  
  
"It's over the top," replied Batman curtly. "If Bennett wanted to do something like this, he would keep it underground."  
  
"He put Harvey's poster near us, naturally and Crane's poster in the Narrows and his own scattered everywhere." Gordon turned around, revealing another poster in his hands. "And he posted yours directly on our front door. There only seems to be the one."  
  
Batman took the offered flyer and held it up. Across the top in old Western font read  **WANTED**  with his thickly framed picture in the center and the name "BATMAN" underneath. In smaller print below his name read:   
 _  
By order of Gotham City for the crimes of vigilantism, unlawful detainment, obstruction of justice, and disturbance of the peace. Reward if captured._  
Batman wasn't concerned with his own poster. "He didn't use Harvey or Crane's given names. He called them Two-Face and Scarecrow."  
  
"I know it," sighed Gordon wearily, looking down at Harvey's poster with a touch of sadness and a pang of guilt. "Do you think they're working together or is the Joker targeting them?"   
  
"No messages left regarding Dr. Quinzel?" asked Batman, unsure of his own thoughts regarding the Commissioner's question.  
  
"No. Well, my wife seems to think that the lyrics left in those Easter eggs were about Dr. Quinzel." He opened the top drawer of his desk to bring out the photos of the lyrics to show Batman. "Seems a little far fetched to me, but this is the Joker we're talking here...what do you..." Gordon looked up to an empty office. "Think?"  
  


\--------------------------------------------------

  
  
Jonathan tried his best to keep a cool smugness on his face when Thomas unexpectedly dropped by Wednesday afternoon while Jervis was at work. Thomas was carrying a grungy plastic grocery bag with what appeared to be rolled up posters in it.  
  
"I found something," said Thomas as he and Jonathan stood in the living room. Taking a pair of designer rimless glasses from the bag, Thomas held them out. "You left them at my house. I thought I lost them."  
  
Unable to hide his excitement, Jonathan snatched the glasses and put them on. Blinking as his eyes began to water, his vision desperately trying to focus after being separated from the glasses for four months, Jonathan gave up trying to adjust and took them off, sighing. "I had to squint every time I picked up a newspaper." He pocketed the spectacles. "I will have to be more careful with them. I don't know how I would ever get a new pair now." He looked at Thomas, about to thank him warmly when he noticed the rolled up sepia toned posters sticking out of the bag. "What are those?"  
  
Thomas knew by now to avoid being the messenger, especially the bearer of bad news. However, Dr. Crane had never shown an inclination of violence towards him, and that gave Thomas the confidence to hand the bag over to Dr. Crane. Nevertheless, Thomas took a tentative side step away from the shorter man, biting down hard on the space between his thumb and index finger as Jonathan took out the posters and unrolled them.  
  
Jonathan's voice became increasingly agitated as he read off the poster with his picture on it. "Wanted, Scarecrow by order of Gotham City for the crimes of inhumane experiments, unethical medical practices, murder, and terrorism through the use of illegal panic inducing drugs. Reward if captured! What the hell is this?"   
  
Glaring at Thomas for answers, the taller, meek man just shrugged nervously in response. Oh, no. Jonathan wasn't going to let him play that little game right now. "You don't know what this is?" Jonathan asked in a dangerously low voice. Unable to form a solid thought for an adequate response, Thomas simply shook his head. Fuming, Jonathan slowly walked towards Thomas, who backed away. "What? You just so happened to find a WANTED poster with my name and picture on it on your way over here?"  
  
Thomas backed into the floor length window. His dark eyes darted around aimlessly, his lips curling anxiously. "Maybe?"  
  
"Try again!" snapped Jonathan, inches away from Thomas. "The Joker made this, didn't he? Gave it to you to show me, get a rise out of me, huh?"  
  
"H-h-h-h-he has one, too," stuttered Thomas, a shaking hand pointed where Jonathan had dropped the other two posters. "A-a-a-a-and Two-Face."  
  
"What's the gag, Thomas? There is a gag, right, because everything is a joke to him. So what is the punch line here? Pistols at high noon in Gotham Square? He's some new Billy the Kid outlaw and I'm old hat that needs to be taken out because this town ain't big enough for the both of us? Huh? Is that it? Well? Tell me!"  
  
Thomas answered him in the only way he knew would placate Dr. Crane; he kissed him. When he drew back Thomas smiled his slightly toothy grin and said, "Maybe I should just turn you in and collect the reward for myself."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Mr. Dent!" cooed Oswald Cobblepot, opening his arms to give a friendly, slightly patronizing pat on Two-Face's shoulders. "I knew paying that Arkham guard top dollar for your true story was a worthy investment." He gestured towards his lavishly decorated office. "Please, do come in and make yourself comfortable."  
  
Two-Face grumbled a barley intelligible thank you as he made his way past the smaller man into the office he already knew. The Iceberg Lounge was technically closed, the servers only starting to prep the main hall for the evening. Two-Face could hear the tinkling of water glasses and fine silver from the kitchen before Oswald closed the door and sat opposite at his desk.  
  
"What can you tell me about the Joker?" asked Two-Face upfront.   
  
"Ah, the alleged Joker appearance. What of it?"  
  
"Is it true?"  
  
Oswald debated for about ten seconds whether to give this information freely before muttering, "Yes."  
  
"What do you know about this?" asked Two-Face, slapping the  _Asteroid_  on the desk between them. Oswald shifted uncomfortable in his leather chair. "The woman this article is talking about; who is she?"  
  
"I haven't a clue, and that is the honest truth, but she arrived and left with him. Not to mention, she did kill two of Boxy's guards all on her own and when Boxy made a pass at her she firmly stood beside the Joker."  
  
Two-Face exhaled through his nostrils, rage building inside of him.  _How dare he...how dare that monster lecture us on chaos and anarchy...that Rachel wasn't personal...upset the established order my ass!_  Two-Face thought bitterly.   
  
"Do you know where the Joker is staying?"   
  
"No," replied Oswald with certainty.   
  
"But you could find out, correct?"  
  
Oswald trembled slightly, his desire to profit waging with his desire to stay the hell out of it.  
  
"Mr. Dent,"  
  
"Two-Face."  
  
"Mr. Two-Face, are you aware of the kind of channels I would have to go through in order to find the kind of information you are seeking?"  
  
"I don't care about money. Sixty grand to tell me where the Joker lives. You have until this time tomorrow to tell me the information. After four o'clock Thursday afternoon, I'm going to knock out four grand for every two hours that go by after that until I either run out of money or you give me the information I want."  
  
Shaking from greed at the prospect of such a tantalizing sum, it took all of Oswald's self restraint to contain his excitement.  
  
"You have yourself a deal, Mr. Two-Face."  
  
"I'll be in touch," said Two-Face as he got up. Seeing Oswald rise up in his chair to follow, Two-Face held up a hand and said, "Don't bother. I know the way out."  
  
As soon as the disfigured man left, Oswald pulled out his book of contacts, trying to think of any name he could think of to connect with the Joker - that was still alive, anyway. Sixty grand was enough dough to light a fire under anyone's tail feathers.  
  


\--------------------

  
  
_Do I have the words 'hard up pushover' written across my forehead?_  Jonathan thought bitterly as he lay in bed with Thomas later that evening. He hated himself for wanting someone as much as he desired his own personal goals as the Scarecrow. What was wrong with him? Why could he so easily melt and be molded to cave into his most base, worthless human wants? There was a time, before the Scarecrow, when he wouldn't have minded admitting his feelings to himself, been happy, even proud to admit them. Reveling in the time he spent with Thomas, taking a fiendish delight knowing he had released him from Arkham only to have him stashed away at his apartment in the evenings when he came home from work. To have an audience to hang on his every word, to join him in sadistic laughter as he told Thomas about his latest exploits with the fear experiments and to have rapt, silent awe when he went on one of his tirades of building a better world. Now...Jonathan didn't know what he wanted.  
  
His hand cupped around Thomas's ear, rubbing the lobe between his thumb and forefinger, Jonathan silently watched Thomas as he mouthed words but no sound came out of his throat. Copulation always had a bizarre effect on the man, his mind drifting away into itself, refusing to resurface until some blanket of security spread itself out over Thomas's neurosis, suddenly snapping him back to reality. Jonathan never knew if Thomas had been abused, if it was some twist of his disorganized schizophrenia or a side effect of the fear toxin he had inhaled over the years, like so many lines to a cocaine addict.   
  
From a psychological point of view, it was fascinating to watch the frail mind crumble before his eyes. But it was always tarnished with a hint of guilt from the eyes of the still-human Jonathan Crane, who felt pathetically attached to someone so breakable.  
  
"Why can't you and Joker just work together?" asked Thomas, finally able to focus.   
  
"Because our goals are the complete opposite, Thomas! Haven't you been paying attention? That lunatic wants to destroy everything and put everyone in a hand basket to hell. I want to help people. I want to show them the way...the way to a better society where no fear can touch their psyche."  
  
"Unless you want it to," said Thomas quietly.  
  
"Yes...I am the only natural candidate to carry the burden. Who else understands fear best?"  
  
"No one," answered Thomas automatically.  
  
"That's right. I would harness it in my fantastic brave new world and I alone would wield is awesome power. I have a superior amount of self-control."  
Thomas rolled onto his stomach and rested on his elbows as he looked up at Jonathan with a sly, knowing smile, the trademark expression of the old Thomas. Jonathan smiled back with a playful roll of his eyes, stroking Thomas's hair.  
  
"Except when it comes to you, yes. I know. Don't think that I am not acutely aware of my singular vice."  
 _  
"Singular?"_  laughed Thomas, a glimmer of his former wit shining through. "Delusional was part of your prognosis, right, Dr. Crane?"  
  
Jonathan's response was a swift smack against Thomas's head with a pillow.   
  


\--------------------------------------------

  
  
Boxy was caught off guard to see Oswald Cobblepot's phone number on the caller ID of his cell phone Thursday morning.   
  
"This is a surprise, Cobblepot."  
  
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Bennett, but I am at my wit's end and I am running low on time. I know this is a most unusual inquiry, but do you know if any of your men have ever been employed by the Joker?"  
  
"No," answered Boxy slowly, wondering what the motive was behind the odd question. "I'm pretty sure none of them have. What is this regarding?"  
  
"A business deal I have taken on. Foolishly, I might add."  
  
"Don't be coy with me, Cobblepot, who's sniffing around for the Joker?"  
  
"It's not the police, if that's what you're getting at."  
  
"I know it isn't. Just tell me. If whoever is asking questions is looking to align himself against the Joker then I want in."  
  
"In?" laughed Oswald condescendingly. "Mr. Bennett, if you have no information to offer I highly doubt my client would be interested in any sort of partnership with you."  
  
Boxy was about to hang up on the portly snob when he suddenly remembered the burly man from the day before. "Wait! I think I might be able to help you after all. It just so happens I have a direct number to a  _current_  employee of the Joker. How 'bout them apples?"  
  
Oswald sniffed, taken aback. "All right. How much do you want for it?"  
  
"Oh, I don't want money, Oswald. You just let your client know that he has a friend in me. Deal?"  
  
"Agreed."  
  


\-----------------------------------------------

  
  
Though it was not technically Thursday anymore, the evening just began for the Joker and his gang. They were in the underground parking lot of the newly constructed  _No.102_ , a sister building to the posh  _No.101_  where Jervis Tetch and other affluent Gotham citizens resided. As the building was months away from being opened for prospective buyers, its dark, unguarded premises came highly recommended from one Thomas Schiff for the Joker to test out the novelty weapons his crew had been tirelessly working on while their boss was committed.   
  
"All right, let it go."  
  
Harley tried to slip the string off her finger but the yo-yo refused to dislodge and came hurling back at them.   
  
"I said let go!" shouted the Joker irritably, taking a step backwards.  
  
"I can't!" Harley screamed in panic.  
  
Quick as a flash, Zigs raised his baseball bat and hit the yo-yo before it collided with Harley. Ripping from its string, the yo-yo flew into the darkness of the empty garage and exploded.   
  
"Thank you," said Harley sheepishly.  
  
Zigs raised his bat to his shoulder. "Never leave home without it."  
  
Marx critically eyed the crate of carefully packaged yo-yos. "They're set for impact release, but I think it would be better to have a time release on it, like a grenade. I'll have to talk to Arbuckle about getting some of the parts."  
  
"Speaking of Fatty," said the Joker as he performed the elevator trick with another yo-yo, "why is he missing out on all of this fun?"  
  
"Has food poisoning," replied Marx. "He was in the middle of puking his guts out when I talked to him earlier."  
  
Roach was once again missing out, banished to the black van that waited down the block just beyond  _No.101_. Tilting his  **MAD**  magazine out the window, Roach tried to catch a bit of lamp post light and air in the insufferably hot, humid night. Startled as something green passed before his eyes and landed in his lap, Roach picked up a sprig of unknown foliage, twirling it curiously in his fingers before glancing in the rearview window to see a dark figure crouching at his tailpipe.   
  
"Hey!" Roach shouted, startling the figure. "What are-" His door was suddenly pried open and Roach was ripped away from the vehicle and dragged kicking and screaming into the brightly lit driveway of  _No. 101_.   
  
"Get down!" a gruff voice commanded, pulling Roach down to the ground as the young man became horrifyingly aware that it was the Batman saving his life as the van abruptly burst into flames.  
  
Batman was already pursuing the lone bomber by the time Roach found the strength to stand up again.  
  
"Holy shit!" cried Roach, clutching his head in aghast. What the hell was he going to tell the Joker? How were they going to get home? They were clear across the entire city!   
  
"Mister!" exclaimed a uniformed man coming out of the driver's seat of a limousine parked in the U-bend driveway of  _No.101_. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Uh," Roach thought quickly. He would have shot the man point blank had he not been an idiot by leaving his gun on the front passenger seat. People were gathering in the lobby behind them, doormen and residents alike peering out cautiously to see what had happened. "Call the fire department and tell those people to get back inside! Hurry!"  
  
The limo driver rushed to do as he was told, dutifully keeping the crowd at bay as Roach darted around the limo and snaked into the driver's seat where he discovered the keys dangling in the ignition.

  
  
From their safe position high above, Jervis and Jonathan calmly ignored the chaos below while Thomas pressed himself against the window from his place on the hardwood floor, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. Only he knew that it was the Joker's van that had exploded and he hoped his friend had not been hurt.   
Jervis sipped his tea. "I'm certainly grateful I drive a Prius."

  
  
"God, Roach, what did you do now?" asked Zigs to no one in particular when the explosion rocked the foundation of the garage.   
  
Grabbing Harley by the wrist, the Joker ordered, "Time to bow out."  
  
Zigs and Marx switched off their portable lights and grabbed the crates, running through the darkness behind the Joker and Harley, who were unexpectedly knocked over by an oncoming figure.   
  
"Watch it!" growled the stranger, who picked themselves up and continued to run. Angry, the Joker grabbed one of the remaining yo-yo's and pitched it into the darkness. It exploded with no results.  
  
"Psst," hissed Zigs close to the Joker's ear. They saw the familiar silhouette of the Batman from the parking garage's entrance as he hesitantly stepped closer, unable to see the Joker and his henchmen. Quietly and quickly moving sideways against the cement wall, the foursome slid across the wall until they were safely on the street.   
  
"Where the fuck's the van?" hissed Marx, panting slightly from the close call. A limousine rounded the corner and screeched to a halt in front of them. Roach stuck out his head.   
  
"Get in, for Christ's sake!"  
  
No time to ask questions, the others climbed in the back seat, the Batman none the wiser as he continued his pursuit of the green thumb criminal. Everyone but the Joker was rapidly talking over one another, each exchanging information about what had happened. Sitting in the furthest seat with his arms crossed, the Joker tuned them out, trying to banish all thoughts on second guessing his own actions. True, they out numbered Batman, but the Joker was caught off guard and if there was one thing to be said about the Joker, it was that he loathed not being in control. 

* * *

  
  
The sky was paling when they pulled up to the warehouse. Everyone was tired and quiet as they staggered inside. Marx's cell phone went off and he answered it, putting on a sickeningly sweet voice.  
  
"You're up awfully early, Chickie," he cooed. "I know I promised to come over but work got a little crazy."  
  
Revolted, the Joker walked on, intending to head upstairs. As soon as he placed his hand on the railing he heard it. _Tick._  Raising his head and turning his ear towards the office, the Joker rounded on Marx and aimed his gun at him, miming to hang up.  
  
"I gotta go, baby, call you later," said Marx in one breath, hanging up on his girlfriend. The Joker held up a hand for silence when Harley opened her mouth, curious to his sudden alertness. Motioning for them to follow, the Joker quietly but swiftly made his way to the office, raising his gun and removing the safety. Zigs stepped ahead of him, gun drawn, and peeked into the office and kitchenette. There was nobody, but the Joker remained cautious.  
  
"Hear it?" he finally whispered. The others bowed and tilted their heads and suddenly, they heard it too.  _Tick._ Confidently, the Joker advanced into the kitchenette and looked up at the ceiling. There, high above them, soldered to the exposed ducts and pipes, was a bomb.  
  
"We've been evicted, boys," said the Joker calmly, lowering his gun.  
  
"We have twenty minutes," said Zigs with resignation as Harley and Roach scrambled away to start packing the cars.   
  
The Joker glared at the bomb, helpless due to its position. Whoever did this had help and equipment. Watching the seconds tick away he was about pry himself away, anger slowly prickling at his skin, boiling deep within him, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the numbers skip.   
  
"Did that thing just...?" Zigs scoffed dubiously. "Did it just...go down by  _two_ minutes?"  
  
Pride and humor mingled with his anger, but the Joker stopped himself from laughing when realization came to him. "There's another bomb somewhere."  
  
"Arg, you're joking, right?" cried Zigs, following the Joker out into the main warehouse.  
  
"Come on," barked the Joker at the others. "Grab everything you can and leave behind anything unnecessary."  
  
"Without the van and time to spare, we'll have to leave most of our supplies," said Zigs in frustration as he headed back to the office to grab any paperwork they might need.   
Though there was nothing he could do about it, the Joker was determined to find out where Two-Face planted the second bomb.  _If I were a bomb, where I would be hiding?_  The Joker then remembered that he was dealing with a man with little sense of humor who would go for the obvious. Lo and behold, the Joker found the second bomb in the drained tank of the second toilet in the ladies restroom.  _What'd you do, Harv, tell some Neandertal lackey to put it somewhere funny and let them run with their own sense of toilet humor?_  Spitting on the bomb, the Joker threw the porcelain lid on the floor and joined the impromptu evacuation.  
  
"Are we ready?" called the Joker from upstairs in an irritated sing-song voice, calmly pocketing his knife collection as Harley ran to and from the cars with all of their personal belongings.   
  
"We got two minutes!" shouted Zigs.  
  
"In real time or Harvey time?" muttered the Joker, rushing downstairs with Harley close at his heels. Marx was at the wheel of the SUV, crammed with all it could haul, while the other four took the limousine with Zigs in the driver's seat.   
  
As they sped off at breakneck speed, the Joker rolled down the mirrored window and stuck his head out, cantankerously watching the warehouse blow sky high against the rising morning sun.   
  
 **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks for reading as always.   
> \- There's an eco-terrorist running amok in Gotham City?! Get on it, Batman!  
> \- WANTED signs *laugh* I know, it's super cheese for Nolanverse Joker but you must forgive me, for my first love is B:TAS and I must throw in weird little pranks like this. Besides, I make things go 'splody to make up for it, no?  
> \- Gotham Heights is located in the same regional area as Wayne Manor. It's basically the ritzy area of Gotham that is set aside from the city itself.  
> \- Bye, bye warehouse.   
> \- Is it just me or is my fic becoming the WHERE'S WALDO of Batman characters?


	12. Five of Clubs: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection." - Thomas Paine

Harley was slumped against the Joker in the back of the limousine that Roach heisted only two hours ago. Though the air conditioner was blasting, the humid night air had already began to make her sweat, feeling every layer of her powdered white face. She tried not to look disappointed. Not over losing the warehouse, that twisted turn of events had yet to actually sink in, but the fact that the Batman had literally walked next to them and the Joker just let him pass. Was she the only one who felt that this was a tremendous mistake? She hated herself for doubting him, loathed every fiber of her very being to even question his genius, but Harley had been there in that parking garage, ready to attack the vigilante had the Joker merely snapped his fingers. But he didn't and he did not even bring it up or crack a joke, which Harley found mildly disturbing.   
They were currently parked under an overpass, with Marx joining them in the front passenger seat for the time being. Zigs kept the radio blasting to keep them awake as Roach pounded his fingers across the keyboard, desperately hunting for a place to relocate.  
  
"Found one!" Roach exclaimed, startling Harley awake. He whistled. "It's a beauty, too."  
  
"Where is it?" asked Zigs, turning the key.   
  
"Bristol."  
  
"What?!" Zigs yelled.  
  
"Are you joking?" Marx asked dead panned. "That's all the way back in Gotham Heights! That place is going to be crawling with cops, wondering where the punk ass kid whose van blew up went, not to mention a missing limo!"  
  
"But that was in  _central_  Gotham Heights," protested Roach. "This is Bristol, the ritzy house area. Totally different. C'mon."  
  
"Shut up," growled the Joker, bowing his head and rubbing his forehead with his bare forearm, uncaring of the dirt stained face paint that rubbed off. "Just go."  
  
Roach navigated as Zigs drove back down the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, cautiously avoiding main streets. Entering the serene, upscale community of Bristol brought tension to everyone in the car, all of them feeling out of place and uncomfortable as they drove down smoothly paved street after street, friendly estates greeting them with lush, tailored lawns, the unfamiliar sound of children enjoying their summer vacation, and an overall sense of security, a world uncaring of the mayhem of downtown Gotham.   
  
"That one," Roach pointed through the lowered driver-passenger window. Twisting in her seat, Harley was awestruck as they pulled into the driveway of a large Federal style house, set back and surrounded by box hedge for privacy around the perimeter of the expansive property.  
  
"Why this one?" asked Harley.  
  
"Owners aren't home," said Roach, petting his laptop appreciatively. His hacking capabilities knew no bounds. "Sailing around the Mediterranean for the summer."  
  
Pulling around the back of the house with Marx behind him, Zigs drove across the back lawn and parked on the tennis court so as to avoid anyone noticing their conspicuous automobile.   
  
"They have a pool!" Roach cried happily as soon as he exited the car.   
  
"Later," said the Joker, cocking his gun as he stared up at the house. "A house like this doesn't come without someone babysitting it."  
  
As usual, the Joker was right, and within ten minutes the college age house sitters had a very rude awakening.  
"Let's see," said the Joker with a grin and a glint in his dark eyes as he pulled on the rope easily found in the garage that held the unfortunate couple together, making them wince in pain as the nylon dug into their flesh. "All right, kids, listen up. The lucky duck who finds the most interesting tools gets to play with these two. You can only have two objects and you have three minutes. Go!"  
  
Roach and Harley darted around the house like two kids on a scavenger hunt. Marx half-heartedly browsed around the den they were in, listening to his girlfriend ramble about commitment on his cell phone. Zigs was busy hauling their equipment inside the house.   
  
"Five...four...three...two...time's up!" the Joker cried. Like two kids on Christmas, Roach and Harley ran back into the den to hold up their findings. Proudly displaying his treasure, Roach held up a letter opener and a seam ripper. The Joker pointed at the seam ripper.  
  
"I like your creativity, Roach. Though I have to say that the letter opener is a tad predictable." He held his thumb and index finger slightly apart. "Just a trifle." He stood in front of Harley, who was dancing from foot to foot. "What about you, Harley girl?"   
  
"Ta da!" she cried, holding up a cheese grater and a stapler. The Joker's eyes lit up and he peered over his shoulder at the panic stricken bound and gagged couple.  
"We have a winner."  
  


* * *

  
  
"I am so damn tired," groaned Roach after business was taken care of and everyone was free to finally relax. "I've been up for almost twenty hours...but I've never lived in a house before, and I sure as shit never been a pool that was i _n the ground_." With that statement, he shed his shirt, shoes and socks and ran outside to leap cannonball style into the pool.   
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Harley longed to follow suit but knew better than to go on her own desires, so she stayed at the bottom of the staircase between the den and the enclosed back porch, watching the Joker detach the silencer from his gun as he stood over the dead couple. Feeling her gaze on him the Joker looked over and nodded towards the back yard.  
  
"Go. You earned it."  
  
"Yippy!" Harley exclaimed, uncaring as she shed to her undergarments and ran out the back door, expertly diving into the cerulean blue water.  
  
Overcome with fatigue, the Joker decided to explore the upstairs. Leaving the bodies for someone else to dispose of, he started up the staircase when he was suddenly seized with the reflex to yawn. Unable to lock his jaw muscles in time, the Joker grunted in pain as the yawn passed through, forcing the skin around his scars to pull achingly. Sighing in frustration, the Joker climbed the stairs, eager to be alone.  
  
When her lack of sleep finally caught up with her, Harley climbed out of the pool and shook off the excess water, the incredible July morning sun already drying her off, and went back into the house. Everything was quiet as she climbed the staircase, dripping on the polished hardwood floors. Trying to find her way through the labyrinthine house, Harley finally discovered where most of the bedrooms were kept. Two of the bedrooms were occupied by Zigs and Marx, another room belonging to a young girl with an affinity for pink and stuffed animals remained untouched, and around the bend in another hall remained a lone locked door. Bingo.  
  
"Mister J?" called Harley tentatively, knocking.  
  
"Go away."  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, a puddle of pool water forming at her feet. She heard a muffled groan.  
  
"Harley, if you don't leave me alone right this minute I cannot be held accountable for all of the things I will do to you. Not that anyone would find all of the pieces to figure out it was you in the first place."  
  
"A-alright," stammered Harley, gulping. "Sorry, Mister J. Get some rest."  
  
"Thank you. Now scram."  
  
As he lay on his back on the bed, his chest heaving as he struggled for even breathes, the Joker felt himself sink deeper and deeper into his mind. Why, of all people, did the damn Batman have to show up? Batman was out of order, popping up like that!  _That_  was not part of the rules, damn it! Pick up the instruction manual, Bats, and take note! You are not permitted to just show up when the madman isn't ready!   
  
His plans were not yet realized, everything was still coming together, albeit slowly, slower now that more than half of his supplies were destroyed, but didn't Batman know all this? How much time and effort he put into his monkey shines? Of course not. Part of his perceived image was to make his audience, the dear citizens of Gotham, believe in the effortlessness behind his antics. But he needed complete creative control, damn it!   
  
Batman's sudden appearance and the warehouse blowing up caught him off guard...the inability to domineer both of these events made him physically ill, even now the Joker could feel his stomach churning as his head pounded, throbbing like a jackhammer on weathered pavement. He couldn't handle it, the sloppy lack of control of it all. It made his skin crawl knowing Batman could just interrupt his life like that.  _I will tell you when we have our next showdown, Batman!_  
Clutching the sides of his head, the Joker gnashed his teeth and desperately tried to mentally scream above his inner voice telling him what a fuck up  _ **miserable job**_  he was, letting Batman walk away.  _EXCUSE ME, I walked away first!_  He kicked the nightstand, knocking it onto its side, smashing the lamp as it crashed to the floor.  **Four against one! Four against **one!**  But no...No. No. No. **NO!**  I slid away like a little bitch coward - AS USUAL - and Bats was never the wiser.** Kicking the wall as his battled the anxiety welling in his chest, he put his left foot into the wall, snarling as he struggled to free it from the fresh hole.  _How could I? One shot in the head and ALL.  
THIS.   
WOULD.   
BE.   
OVER._   
I would  **OWN** Gotham right now. No, I just have to  **go big**.  ~~What the fuck am I trying to prove, anyway?~~  
Turning on his stomach, the Joker bellowed a bloodcurdling roar against a pillow, helpless against the domineering voice, squeezing his head so tight his ears went numb, hoping he would have the balls to smother himself before the loathing voice drove him further into madness. Finally, out the dark crevices of his mind, the  _id_  came to the rescue with a sucker-punch to the ego.  
Are you kidding me? The warehouse and the lost supplies are immaterial. There is always another way. And lessons in respect for another man's property can always be taught to those who break the rules. SO WHAT if I was unprepared? There will always be a next time. That is the brilliance of Batman! He's never going to kill me.  _Dumbfuck._  Besides, what was I going to do?   
Shoot.  
Him?   
Sink to the level of a common criminal?   
 **I am above that.**  
BIGGER than that.   
 _ **BETTER**_  than that.   
I am peerless!   
Like Batman  
CONTROLED.  **ME.**  IN. CONTROL. WITH. BATMAN. KNOWING. JUST. WHO. IS. PULLING. THE. TRIGGER!  
Mentally exhausted and unable to form another cohesive thought, the Joker finally passed out.  
  


* * *

  
  
Waking in a peevish mood kept the Joker's defense on the high, expecting more excrement flung at him from every which way. He hoped everyone had enough sense to stay on his good side, if such a thing existed.  
  
Opening the bedroom door, he expected to see Harley there, waiting patiently for admittance. When she wasn't there as he envisioned, curled up just starting to flutter her curling lashes, he became furious and set out to find her. He found her in a room clearly belonging to a young girl, with pink walls and ballooning eyelet valances. Harley, still in her underclothes, slept on a pink and white canopied bed, the linens matching the rest of the hideous feminine youthful decor. Quietly shutting the door behind him, the Joker crept over to Harley and watched her sleep, peacefully unaware of his presence, her blonde pigtails still wet from her dip in the pool, now mingling with the sweat from the afternoon humidity. Her white powered face had washed away, leaving only a small make up ring around the perimeter of her heart shaped face.   
  
The stuffed animals piled around her made her look all the more like the nymphet he always pegged her for, carelessly unaware the affect of her cherubic face and nicely developed figure had on all those who gazed upon her. Well, she would soon become distinctly aware of the affect, decided the Joker, still burning with rage from his previous meltdown, and now personally insulted by his own pet!   
  
Grasping Harley by her shoulders, the Joker quickly flipped her onto her back and before she even had her eyes open he was straddling her torso, a leg on either of her thin shoulders, pinning her down painfully. Frightened by the abrupt wake up call, Harley's panic doubled as she realized she could not move from the waist up. Opening her mouth to plead, the Joker cut her off with his rock hard erection. Moaning, her body engulfed in arousal as it was trained to do by now, Harley struggled to keep a rhythm as the Joker brutally rammed his cock, clearly intent on not permitting Harley any control or pleasure. When she attempted to adjust, even groan pleadingly, he grabbed her roughly by the hair, wrapping a pigtail around his hand and forcing her still as he continued to assault her.  
  
"Little girls should not be so eager to suck cock," he told her in an eerily low voice. "Little girls in dainty pink rooms should play with their toys, not be a toy themselves. What kind of little girl are you, anyway? I'll tell you, Harley-girl. You're a naughty little girl. You don't deserve a shred of what I give you. You're bratty, shallow, and utterly useless. There's not a single person on this entire planet that cared enough about you to look for you." Leaning down closer to her face, Harley groaned as the weight of his body cut off feeling to her arms. "No mommy, daddy, grandma, not even a dog.  _Nobody_  loves you, baby. You wanted so desperately for someone to take care of you, be their little girl, and when I give you exactly what you asked for, you demanded more." He pulled her by the bangs and thrust faster in her mouth, laughing as tears welled in her eyes. "Little girl, can't you ever be satisfied? I don't have the patience to keep reminding you of your place. If you wanna be the competent accomplice, fine, then act like the rest of 'em and stroke your own cunt. But if you wanna be my little girl?  _Daddy's little girl?_  You gotta learn to swallow whatever I shove down your throat." With a breathless, guttural grunt he came, thrusting rapidly in her mouth as she swallowed his semen along with her sobs of humiliation.   
  
Glaring at her impassively as he pulled out and put himself away, he watched her little chest rise and fall beneath him as she gasped for breath, her blue eyes wide and vacant as they stared at the canopy above them. Looking behind him, he saw she was desperately fighting with her body, wanting release as she crossed her legs, then giving a frustrated cry as she uncrossed them, clearly trying to obey him.   
  
Silently, he climbed off of her and walked around the pink vomit room, intent on a mission. Grateful as the feeling came back to her arms, Harley kept as still as she could, unable to help the slight quivering as she watched him circle the room, his eyes darting to her occasionally. Spying something cute and pink on a fun size vanity, the Joker plucked a plastic pink wand from what appeared to be a youthful shrine to being a princess, and tossed the object on the bed between Harley's legs. Leaning against a post, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her expectantly.  
  
"If you're just going to sit and stare at me, I'm going to make that thing magically disappear," he warned coolly.  
  
Her heart palpitating, still unsure what prompted any of this; Harley grasped the wand with one hand and removed her panties with the other. Tentatively, Harley slid the butt of the wand in, gently at first with shallow thrusts.  
  
"Spread your legs,  _baby_."  
  
Wincing at the malice in his voice, Harley did as instructed, continuing with her cursory use of the wand.   
  
"Go  _in_ , little girl."  
  
Sliding the wand in slowly, Harley could not help the pleasurable gasp escape from her lips.   
  
"Harder," he commanded banally.   
  
Fisting the wand tightly, Harley delved harder as commanded, raising her hips off the bed, a shuddering sigh with every thrust. He watched her, curious, then tilted his head to one side and asked, "Whatcha thinkin' about, little girl?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Uh-huh," she answered in a baby voice.  
  
"What about me?" he asked, tracing the pattern of the swirly pink rug with his big toe.  
  
"Everything, daddy," she replied in the baby voice, "everything about you."  
  
He stepped closer, standing right above her.  
  
"Like what?" he whispered, resting his hand on her knee. The touch was electrifying, causing her to cry out and drive the toy faster, deeper inside. With her free hand she made the mistake of reaching out for him, her fingertips brushing the front of his pants. Instantly, his hands were around her throat and she was choking as she took great pains not to stop her handiwork between her legs.  
  
Hunched over, his lips against her ear, the Joker growled, "Never. Fucking. Satisfied," and released her throat. "Faster, little girl," he yelled in her ear. "Harder, deeper. I know the size you typically wear. Come on, little girl, make yourself come. You don't want me, you never wanted me."  
  
"No, Daddy," cried Harley with a sob. "I'm your baby...I always want you."  
  
"Is that so?" he asked dubiously, brushing back her hair from her sweaty face. "My little girl prefers to get fucked by Daddy?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Prefers Daddy's cock in her little pussy to cheap imitations?"  
  
"Yes," Harley screamed, bottom bouncing off the mattress as her orgasm peaked, jamming the wand as far as she could, rubbing it manically against her clit. He ran the back of his hand tenderly across her smooth cheek, peering into her wild blue eyes curiously.  
  
"My little girl," he said barely audible, cupping her chin as he bent down to kiss her, pausing right above her lips, hesitant. He looked away from her eyes suddenly and then abandoned her altogether, walking back over to the post and turning his back on her.  
  
"Don't keep Daddy waiting, little girl."  
  
With a primal scream, Harley came, her hips jutting upwards as she rode out her orgasm, slowly, slowly and finally ceasing. Panting for breath, her mind totally blank, Harley threw the wand to the floor and outstretched her arms wide, her hands clasping and unclasping in time with her heaving chest and loud gasps for air.  
  
The Joker turned his head slightly to glance at her. "Are you satisfied now, little girl?"  
  
Broken, Harley curled up on her side, covering her head with her arms, and began to savagely cry. In a considerably lighter mood, the Joker smiled to himself and left the room, her sobs pleasantly echoing in his ears.   
  


* * *

  
  
"I am so fucking lost!" Roach cried as he opened yet another closet, hoping to find the kitchen. "I don't know how these people live like this. I wonder if they get lost in their own home?"  
"No," replied Marx. "Just you people who aren't used to their house being on wheels."  
  
"Shut up," said Roach, finally turning down the right hall that led him to the gourmet kitchen. "What the hell do people need so much space for? And all of this stuff? I don't get it." Looking at Marx as if a light bulb had switched on in his brain, Roach said, "You should get Chickie to come out here. This is place is sweet!"  
  
"I think that would be a tremendously bad idea," said Zigs, overhearing.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You don't stick two unfamiliar Blühdhaven babes in the same place, especially around men. It's just against the rules," explained Zigs. He and the Joker were standing in the enclosed porch, making a list of everything they would need to replace.  
  
"Come on, Marx," said Roach, "What do you say?"  
  
"I'm inclined to agree with Zigs, actually. Chickie doesn't get on well with other females." He looked over at the Joker. "Which reminds me, can I loot the jewelry? She's been jonesin' for some new shiny stuff."  
  
"Mags and her shiny objects," Joker commented offhandedly. "Take whatever you want, but don't tell her just yet. She's going to have to  _earn_ it this time."  
  
"Sure, just as long as I can give her something Friday night."  
  
"Friday night?" asked the Joker, clearly missing out on something. Marx looked at Zigs, who looked at Roach, who shrugged.  _"What?"  
_  
"I...thought I told you," said Marx honestly. "Friday is Chickie and mine's engagement party. Her folks are hosting it."  
  
The Joker made a face of absolute nausea and disgust. "You're getting married? To  _Mags?"_    
  
"Yeah," replied Marx uneasily. "Remember that ring a while back? The one I couldn't get off that lady, so you had to cut off her finger?"

  
Shrugging, the Joker just shook his head, severely disappointed in his lackey and yet another unpleasant surprise.   
  


\------------

  
  
The Joker banished Harley to the pink room indefinitely, making her stay there for hours on end, oftentimes forgetting to let her come out for basic food and restroom needs. Additionally, he refused Harley her clothes, forcing her to use the wardrobe of the unknown vacationing child. The clothes barely covered her, and were typically worn once as the Joker assaulted her continuously, ripping at the garments if they were in the way of a sexual conquest, or ruining them when he drew enough blood to stain them beyond continual wear. 

Alternating between boredom and torment, Harley quickly came to anticipate the sporadic visits to her pretty prison, of which she was beginning to feel like a giant in the land of Lilliput. When the Joker was spent and tired of her, Harley inevitably threw herself on the floor and wrapped her arms around his legs, begging him not to leave her alone. 

"You're spoiled enough, little girl," the Joker would reply, pointedly snubbing her. "I'm only going to let you out when you learn some genuine gratitude for this lavish life I provide for you. Get off me, now."

"But I miss you, Daddy," Harley whined on her knees, both arms wrapped around his shin. "I don't care what you do to me, just stay with me." Audaciously she ran her hand up his inner thigh, receiving a powerful backhand that sent her spinning to the floor. 

"Pampered brat," grumbled the Joker as smoothed down his clothes. "So ungrateful." Balefully staring down at her, he was appeased to see the unabashed adoration in her tear stained eyes as she looked up at him.   
  


* * *

  
  
Over the weekend they kept up with the news, hacked into the online banking kept by the owners of the home and made a few transactions, but overall kept a low profile. When they had arrived on Friday morning, the kitchen was plenty stocked for the house-sitting couple, but with five adults, the convenient food was eaten up by Tuesday evening, leaving only raw ingredients left to be thrown together blindly in hopes of a digestible meal. After a botched attempt at spaghetti, the noodles so sticky they could not be scooped into individual bowls without the aid of a crowbar, Roach became embittered by his hunger and started taking apart the kitchen.

Zigs watched Roach on the floor, surrounded by kitchen gadgets. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Trying to find the doodad that just makes food."  
  
"The what?"  
  
"A machine that you just put raw food into, push a button and it makes, like, a Thanksgiving dinner. All these rich fuck's have one."  
  
"A microwave?" suggested Zigs.   
  
"No, no," replied Roach, frustrated. "A fucking machine that makes fucking food!"  
  
"Just go out and grab us some take-out, man," said Zigs, disturbed by the younger man's behavior. Drawing out several bills from his wallet, Zigs handed them to Roach, who hopped up and dashed out the back door. As he adjusted the driver's seat in the SUV, Roach felt something under the seat. It was the  _Asteroid_. Slight panic rising, thankful the Joker had not been the one to find it, Roach looked for an appropriate place to hide it. It needed to be destroyed, though, as Zigs had advised. Tucking it into the waistband of his jeans as a reminder, Roach set off.   
  


\-------------

  
  
Harley watched Roach drive off in the SUV, sighing as she caught sight of the pool and longed to be out in the sunshine, despite the humidity.   
 _No, Daddy wants me to stay in here_ , she told herself, her own inner voice taking on a babyish tone and register. Moving away from the window, Harley lolled about the room, having grown tired of playing with her toys and dress up clothes.   
  
She wanted him to come and visit her...he had earlier...and oh, what a fun time was had. She was so excited to see him she forgot her manners and jumped up onto him, hoping he would touch her. Touch her he did, warming up with a few resounding slaps for her impetuous behavior before having her kneel on the bed and masturbate through her panties while he sat in a child sized chair watching, banally amused. He told her to continue, even when she pleaded to use the restroom, and when Harley could no longer take the stimulation and basic bodily need, she was forced to release both kneeling on her fluffy pink canopy bed. She was embarrassed beyond any other humiliation she had ever felt, but when she heard his deep, gentle laughter and chanced a peek at him, seeing that wonderful, beautiful smile, all trace of embarrassment washed into personal pride and humor.   
  
Cleaned up and bored now, Harley reconsidered playing dress up again. As Harley dug around the pretend wardrobe, she caught sight of a brightly colored plastic stethoscope. Holding it in her hands, she heard a small, barley audible voice from deep within:  
 _  
Dr. Quinzel...paging Dr. Quinzel, where are you?_  
  
Throwing the stethoscope down with an exaggerated noise of contempt, Harley plucked a shiny white clown ruff instead, tying it around her slim neck and admiring herself in the child sized mirror.   
  


\-------------

  
  
"Food call!" Roach exclaimed as he held up four large brown paper sacks, then tossed one to each man. The Joker glared into the paper sack, then at Roach, back into the bag, then at Roach again.  
  
"What is this?"  
  
"Avocado cheeseburger," said Roach with a mouthful of food. "You said you didn't care what I got you. Want mine?" He held out a bitten burger with BBQ sauce dripping out of its sides. The Joker glared at him menacingly before getting up, knocking Roach in the shoulder as he walked by, knocking the tabloid in Roach's waistband to the floor.  
  
"Oh, shit," muttered Zigs, recognizing the copy of the  _Asteroid_. Roach froze to the spot as the Joker picked up the paper, read the front page teaser, turned to the page, and silently studied the blurb with the grainy picture. His shoulders shook once, causing Roach to flinch, waiting for his impending death.   
  
"Hench wench," the Joker sighed quietly, dropping the paper as he turned away and left them.   
  
"You idiot!" Zigs scolded, throwing a cushion at Roach. "I told you to get rid of that thing. Oh, and way to go on the food, asshole."  
  
"What?" cried Roach, thankful to still be breathing.   
  
"He can't eat it, stupid," hissed Zigs, motioning to his face then nodding in the direction their boss had exited.   
  
"Oh, shit," Roach said through another bite of his burger, never more grateful to taste the delicious junk food. "You think he's going to kill me?"  
  
"I think he would have killed you right away," said Marx logically. "But you should probably sleep outside tonight. To be safe."  
  
"And for the love of God," cried Zigs, "Burn that stupid paper!"  
  


\----------

  
  
The Joker glared at the grease stained bag as he stood at the top of the staircase.  
  
 _Foiled by a three dollar avocado cheeseburger,_  he thought bitterly. He stood in the middle of the hall, trying to debate which direction to turn, but unable to form any solid thoughts on the matter, he stormed to the right. Barging into Harley's room, the Joker threw the bag on the floor and sat down heavily on the bed. Startled, Harley quickly pulled off the white dress up wedding veil she had been wearing and stuffed it back into the plastic child sized wardrobe before kneeling a the side of the bed and looking curiously at the Joker.  
  
"Not now, Harley," he said wearily. "Daddy's not in a good mood." Rubbing his forehead and licking his bottom lip in rapid succession, he got up and left her as suddenly as he arrived, not bothering to close the door behind him.   
  
Sitting down at the edge of the bed in the master bedroom, the Joker trembled as a downward spiral took over his psyche. His body wanted to give into emotional reaction; he was exhausted and frustrated with these little ridiculous foils. Miniscule pitfalls he couldn't overcome. His mind, however, raged against him, demanding him to ignore such insignificant trifles and focus on the bigger picture. This was not a weakness. His face...his face could not hinder the grand scheme of his plans. He was the master of fate, holding Gotham City in the palm of his hand, watching from a comfortable distance as they scurried in terror just knowing he was out there. Who else could do this? No one. No one else was smart enough, daring enough to harness and deliver the cataclysmic horror of random chaos. He was not afraid. Let him have a first class ticket to hell. There is no hell! Only Gotham City...To be in hell is to live the life the established order tries to impose on you. No one was going to hinder him...no one. Not the moronic hired help. Not Commissioner Gordon and his legion of law. Not the doting doctors of Arkham. Not the goddamn Batman. And especially not himself.   
  
Feeling a long forgotten and unwelcome sting at the back of his eyes, the Joker pressed the heel of his hands against his sockets until he started seeing bright red spots on the inside of his eyelids.   
  
"Mister J?"  
  
Startled, the Joker sat up and glowered at Harley standing in the doorway, a plate in her hands. Ignoring her, he turned away from her as she entered and closed the door with her foot.   
  
"I brought your food."  
  
Irritably wiping his hands together, having accidentally gotten black face paint on them, the Joker gave up and snatched the plate of food away from her, his stomach rumbling traitorously.  
  
"Can I stay here with you? Please?" Harley asked in that grating baby voice as she knelt on the bed.  
  
"Mm," he replied uncaring. She crawled closer to him, slowly at first least he reconsider his decision and push her off. Ignoring her, he ripped the food apart into small, sloppy pieces and jammed them one at a time into his mouth savagely. Transfixed, Harley couldn't believe he had successfully kept this hidden for so long. Or had she not noticed until now, her own skewed vision of him as nothing short of perfection blinding her to these little foibles?  _No, nothing about him is flawed,_  she thought adoringly.  _Only unparalleled genius._  
  
Inching over to him she tentatively picked up a piece and lovingly held it up, an offering, with a shy smile on her face. Grabbing it with his teeth, the Joker looked at her, eyes askance. When he was finished, he looked at Harley expectantly. Silently observing her, the Joker noted the white and pink ruffled nightgown she wore, a perfect fit for a child, but on Harley it barley touched her thighs, the eyelet trimmed days of the week underwear proudly displaying the word Friday across its front as it peek-a-booed under the hem.   
  
"It's not Friday, pumpkin," said the Joker mildly, watching the hem of the gown move rhythmically as she cut into the food. Bruises, bites and cuts littered her body, looking every bit as perfect as her flawless complexion, wide ruby lips and pert breasts that were clearly displayed through the sheer fabric.   
  
"I know," she said with a severe pink flush in her cheeks. He looked at the remaining food and then at her, expectantly. With a tiny squeak, Harley eagerly picked up another piece and gave a yelp as he quickly grabbed it with his teeth, nipping her fingertips.   
  
"Daddy, you're so silly," she giggled with her little pink tongue sticking out playfully as he snatched another piece with only his teeth.   
  
"That's me," he replied quietly, amused. "Silly billy goat."  
  
Offering the last piece, he grabbed it and pulled it with his tongue. A small spot of food remained at the corner of his mouth and Harley reluctantly reached out her hand, indicating she wanted to remove it. Taking hold of her wrist firmly, the Joker did not look at her as he moved her hand away from his face. He saw her lean towards him, closing her eyes as she parted her lips and licked at the corner of his mouth. Watching her retract her tongue and shudder with desire, the Joker did not stop her when she scooted closer and snaked out her tongue again, running it across the red face paint heavily smeared on his scars.   
  
He knew not to expect anything, the nerve endings severed years ago removed all possibilities of sensation. Still, he enjoyed the mental image it brought to him; Harley, his little girl, on her knees, leaning forward with only that cute little pink tongue lap, lap, lapping away, removing the red paint from his scars. Looking down through heavily lidded eyes, the Joker noted her slim hips quivering, her panties slightly twitching as her arousal built. He didn't even need to touch her. Leaning back on his arms, the Joker closed his eyes as her tongue pressed harder against his damaged skin, careful to catch every crevice of his cicatrices. Hands clutching the sheets beneath him, the Joker felt his breathing deepen as he saw her in his minds eye, licking away.   
  
Resisting the urge to put his hands on her breasts and gyrating hips, the Joker wanted to explore how far this would take him without touch. When she was satisfied with the left side of his face and moved onto the right, little sounds of pleasure escaped her mouth, reddened from the face paint. Still, he felt nothing except a distinct pressure pressing so hard against his cheek that he could feel it on the scar inside his mouth. What he could feel was hot breath coming in exasperated little puffs every time she sighed longingly, her cries reaching the familiar pre-orgasmic pitch he had come to know and secretly cherish. It was deliciously pornographic, the way her voice rose and fell with desperation, the anticipating release. Feeling his own heart rate quicken in sync with his breathing, he recognized similar stimulation run its course through the master circuits of his mind, a reaction he had come to associate only with the gratification of absolute destruction until now.   
  
Licking at him with insatiable hunger, Harley rubbed her thighs together, squeezing her muscles when she felt his ragged breath hot against her skin, faint noises of undeniable, ravenous lust matching with her own. Advancing into something so esoterically climatic, their minds and bodies peaked in one eye-opening, jaw-dropping rush.   
  


* * *

  
Curled up on the bed with Harley pressed tightly next to him, his face buried against the nape of her neck, the Joker thoughts were on the last five days. He was tired of surprises flying at him from every corner. Batman...explosions...engagements...tabloid stories and culinary challenges. They may have ranged in extremities, but he officially had enough. Surprises were no fun unless he was the one handing over the box of mystery, ready to be unwrapped by unsuspecting receivers. No, he had unwrapped his present and there was no gift receipt for the surprise life gave him. It was time to take charge and turn the table back in his favor.  
  
 _"Bonnie to his Clyde..."_  the Joker softly laughed to himself as he drifted to sleep, his thoughts already five steps ahead of everyone else as usual. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mark my words, I derive no joy out of writing the more graphic abusive. Or any abuse for that matter. It is a depressing reality for these two and not something I can easily gloss over.  
> \- Bristol is a real, canon subsection of Gotham Heights, where big fuck-off houses are like Wayne Manor.   
> \- The cheese grater & stapler is a reference to Greg Rucka's novelization of the No Man's Land story: Quote, "Harley, he had discovered, had tricks. One of her favorites involved a rusty cheese grater and a stapler. It didn't always work, mostly because people didn't tend to sit still for that sort of thing, but it gave Joker a consistent laugh, and he figured in time Harley would have it down to a science." (from Wiki)  
> \- I tried my best to portray the inner voice of the Joker's id. The id the part of our psyche that is the source for human impulsion that seeks gratification. It is what the Joker lives by, not his 'ego' (by psychoanalysis terms). We all have this, he just has it in extreme, and after he has more Joker experience under his belt it will primarily be the id ruling him. I think it's naive to assume he doesn't have moments of self-doubt or madness, especially since he's relatively new at being the Joker. Anyway, I tried my best.  
> \- Blühdhaven is the DC Universe equivalent to Newark, NJ.   
> \- Lilliput is the fictional island in Gulliver's Travels that is inhabited by people "not six inches high." Being forced to live in a room meant for a small child? Can't be healthy for the already compromised mentality of a grown woman.   
> \- With the scars restricting the mobility of his face, the Joker cannot eat A LOT of basic foods without ripping them apart into the size/shape that he can just toss into his mouth. And no, he can't feel sensation on them. They're dead nerve endings. His scars are serious business and do hinder him physically. This information was provided by my friend, Ade, a medical examiner, who has sadly slipped into the ether. I saved her post, however, and have it backed up, if anyone is interested in reading it and using it as a reference.


	13. Queen of Clubs: Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The essential balance of the Universe. All was once in Equilibrium; one day, all will return.

_Bzzz.  
Bzzz._  
Inhaling deeply as consciousness slowly prickled at the back of his mind, the Joker gripped Harley under her breasts and pressed himself tightly against her back.  
  
"What the hell is that noise?" he grumbled, his voice heavy from sleep.  
  
"Sounds like a cell phone," Harley replied hoarsely, turning on her back as he moved away from her body to feel around the foot of the bed for his discarded trousers. Awe-inspiring terrorist he might be, but impervious to stifling summer humidity he was not. He had unconsciously pocketed Marx's cell phone yesterday after calling Chickie to let her know they would be meeting with her that afternoon. Taking the cell phone out of his pocket, he tossed it onto Harley's stomach.  
  
"Read it," he commanded, sliding back against the pillow, trying not to fall back asleep as he flung his arm across Harley's breasts and tucked his face between her shoulder and neck.  
  
"Okey, dokey," Harley said with extra cheer in her voice, opening her eyes wide to help her wake up. "It's from Arbuckle and it says,  _Saw the warehouse on the news. Are you guys OK?"_  
  
"That bastard," muttered the Joker with a laugh as he idly massaged Harley's nipples through the fabric of the nightgown. "The news probably reported that no bodies were found, which would put Two-Face in a  _mood_  and pressure on his informant. But Fatty'll still be around long enough to play one more hand."  
  


**\--------------**

  
  
Peering out of the kitchen, Thomas cautiously looked around to make sure no one was around. That weird friend of Dr. Crane's, Jervis Tetch, was still at work and Dr. Crane was using his laboratory, finally motivated to continue his progress. Thomas had been told to keep any food confined to kitchen eating only, but he found the apartment creepy on a level he could not explain. Dr. Crane lived on this very floor and Thomas had always been happy there. Thomas had no sound reasoning for having the willies, but he obeyed his instinct. Since the only room he felt comfortable in was Dr. Crane's guest quarters, Thomas decided to sneak his mid-afternoon breakfast there.   
Dr. Crane might find out...but Thomas knew he wouldn't be mad. He would find Thomas's superstition endearing, like always, and Thomas was grateful for it. No one else liked him for it. Oh, the Joker thought he was funny...but not in the same way. Thomas wasn't completely out to lunch; in his rare moments of clarity he was fully aware that the Joker found the often disabling quirks of his illness to be a form of entertainment.  
Perching himself on Dr. Crane's bed with his cereal in one hand and the television remote control in the other, Thomas was about to enjoy some quality time with digital cable when his back pocket began to vibrate. Dropping the remote, Thomas removed the cell phone from his jeans pocket and flipped it open. Only two people in the world can reach him at this number, and one of them was thirty feet away.  
"Hello, J."   
"Hi there, Thomas," said the Joker pleasantly. "Still at Crane's?"  
"Yes."  
"What's that little queer up to?"  
"He's working," replied Thomas conversationally, indifferent to the Joker's obvious means of spying. "Something about wanting his toxin to be more...uhm...away from him."  
"Hm. Oh, we've had a sudden change of address," said the Joker.   
"What happened?" asked Thomas between spoonfuls of cereal. Thomas predates the warehouse, but that has always been the Joker's main residence since their initial meeting.  
"Fatty went stoolie on us, turned us over to Two-Face."  
Thomas's eyes widened, his spoon went slack in his hand and dropped back down to his bowl. "You mean Harvey Dent?"  
"Whoever, he blew up my home. I mean, the least he could have done was send a clever warning...but I guess asking someone like him to have a little imagination is too freaking much. Still. Exploding a man's castle? It's just  _rude_."  
"I'm sorry," Thomas says with genuine empathy. Joker often took pride in the fact that neither Gotham's Finest or the Batman ever sussed out the warehouse of novelty toys and party supplies as the Joker's home.   
"What matters right now is that the proper parties responsible are duly punished."  
A smile danced across Thomas's face. "Uh-huh."  
"Wanna have a little fun with us?"  
  


**\--------------**

  
  
"You don't need me?" asked Zigs, mildly surprised, even a little suspicious. However, as the Joker and the others were not taking more than a gun each, Zigs knew there was nothing to fear. The Joker would not blow up what little of his equipment remained.   
  
"Sure we do," said the Joker as he let the others pass him by. "We need you to watch the home front. Don't worry, we'll come grab ya for tonight's performance." He flashed his best rat bastard smile and closed the door behind him. Zigs shook his head disdainfully.   
  
"Sure. Leave the brother to guard the big ass house in the honkiest neighborhood in Gotham."  
  


**\---------------**

  
  
Anyone who saw her would know she was from Blühdhaven. Her auburn hair was curled and piled high on her head, her nails like glittering gold talons, the gold hoop earrings reaching below her chin, and the heels on her leopard print pumps could kill a man at the right angle and velocity, not to mention the Lussori pink diamond ring in 18k white and rose gold that could slap the extensions off any smack talkin' bitch. She loved coming over the river and into Gotham, but waiting here on the corner outside her boyfriend's apartment building for ten...no, fifteen, minutes was just too much. Chickie hated waiting. Her precious teacup Chihuahua, Pica, was not particularly keen on riding in her leopard print Juicy Couture bag, either.   
A car pulled up alongside the curb and the convertible top folded down.   
  
"How much, sugar?"  
  
"Shut up," Chickie snapped, ignoring the Joker's rudeness as she leaned over his front passenger side and, sliding her slender body across him and over to Marx, putting her arms around him and pulling him in for a kiss. The Joker grabbed the furiously barking Pica from her bag and raised her up and down, imitating her high pitched barks.   
  
"What's wrong with your old corner, Mags?" asked the Joker, putting Pica on Chickie's bottom as it wiggled over his lap. She glared at him over her shoulder.  
  
"You _told_ me to meet you here, bastard." She went back to kissing her man.   
  
The Joker inhaled deeply as Pica licked under his chin. "Mmm, what's that intoxicating perfume you're wearing, my dear? Chokes on dick number five?"  
  
Releasing Marx, Chickie hoisted herself up, the Joker quick to grab her pooch before she slid off her owner's pert derrière, and leaned heavily on the Joker's car door before pointing one golden talon at the Clown Prince of Crime as she calmly replied, "You wear more makeup than my Aunt Francine."  
  
"Ouch," he said, holding Pica to his chest, scratching her soft ears. "That hurt."  
  
"Seriously," she said, shamelessly touching the tip of his nose with her fake gold fingernail. "Whatcha want?"  
  
"Well, first, I want you to stop molesting me, lest my old lady rip you a new one. Be polite, introduce yourself."  
  
Chickie noticed Harley for the first time, seething in the back seat with her blue eyes glaring at the audacious flirt. Noticing the wild cat fight pending look in Harley's eyes, Roach scooted away from her.  
  
"Chickie Pye," said Chickie, holding out her hand to shake, her gold bracelets clattering. Harley eyed her suspiciously but accepted the hand.   
  
"And this is Pica," said the Joker between his teeth in a parody of Chickie's voice. "Except she should've been named Cutlass. Or Hacksaw. Or Chopper. Or Miss Blunderbuss. Isn't that right, Miss Blunderbuss?"  
  
"Pica is a  _cute_  name!" Chickie insisted, her fists on her hips.  
  
"What's that, Miss Blunderbuss?" asked the Joker, placing Pica's face close to his right ear. "Your Mommy did  _what?_  How many in a row?" Joker laughed uproariously as Chickie stomped her foot against the pavement. "Listen, Mags," said the Joker seriously, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Do us a favor and call up Fatty. Make him take you to dinner at McGinty's, keep him out for a while."  
  
Chickie laughed through her nose, sweeping back her red curls. "Yeah, right. Why would I be seen in public goin' out to dinner with Fatty when come Saturday I'm going to be at my engagement party?  _Duh._ "  
  
"I didn't say sleep with him, you trollop, I said have him take you to dinner. Call him up, say you haven't heard from Marx in a while and you're worried. You need some company. Do _not_ let him stay home tonight."  
  
"Why McGinty's?" asked Chickie petulantly, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "I don't feel like their food, I wanna go for sushi. Can't I have him take me out for sushi?"  
  
"Just go to McGinty's!" snapped the Joker, slamming his arm down on the door. "It's important," he added calmly. "It will send a message to Boxy Bennett."  
  
Chickie put her hands on her slim hips. "You're not gonna blow up McGinty's are you? Peyton will be so mad."  
  
"Peyton Riley is wasting her time hanging around McGinty's making doe eyes at Boxy Bennet," said Marx sternly. "Just stay out of it."  
  
"So, what's in it for me?" asked Chickie, reaching between her partially exposed bosom to pull out a lighter, then digging through her purse for a cigarette. Roach handed Marx the overflowing jewelry box.  
  
"Shiny, shiny," replied Marx, waving the box around. Chickie's eyes lit up, and she reached out for the box, her manicured fingers wiggling with glee.  
  
"Ooooh, Marxy!" exclaimed Chickie, exhaling her long drag. "You shouldn't have. Gimme!"  
  
"Not so fast," the Joker said, raising his free arm between her and the jewelry box. "Favor first, baubles later."  
  
"Gimme one to wear tonight at least," Chickie demanded.   
  
Marx pulled out a string of pink pearls and handed them to her. When she outstretched her hand, the Joker grabbed it, staring maliciously at her engagement ring, and then smiled at Marx.  
"When's the happy day?"  
  
"New Year's Day," Marx replied.  
  
"Really?" he turned to look up at her. "Where's my invitation?"  
  
"Oh, sorry! No room," she cooed mockingly, wrenching her hands free to extend over him and take the pearls.   
  
"No room?" the Joker gasped, pretending to be affronted. "I've never been so insulted! I introduced you two. How many people did you invite?"  
  
"It's going to be very small, actually," she insisted. "Three hundred people."  
  
"Three hundred?" he repeated, still pretending to be wounded by her snub. "You're just scared I'm going to blow away your family."  
  
"It's a reasonable concern."  
  
"Well..." he replied, trying not to give away that this was, indeed, a thought that had crossed his mind. "Not if the food is worth hanging around for. What are you having?"  
  
"Chicken cordon bleu and veal."  
  
Joker made a repulsed face. "Never mind, I'm not going."  
  
"Jackass, you're not invited," she snapped as she slipped the pearls over her head. They clashed horribly with all of the gold jewelry she was decked out in. "All right, I'm ready." She held out her slender hand.  
  
"Check or cash?" asked the Joker with as best an innocent smile he could muster. She punched him weakly in the center of his chest, eliciting a cackle from him.   
  
"Keys."  
  
"Got 'em," said Marx, reaching into his pocket and giving her the keys to his apartment. "See you later tonight, baby."  
  
"Bye, bye, baby," cooed Chickie, leaning over once more to plant a noisy kiss on Marx's lips.   
  
"Whoa," exclaimed the Joker as the ash from the butt of her cigarette fell on the front of his pants. Hastily brushing it off he snarled, "These pants cost more than you're worth, missy   
Mags!" Growling as her tightly clad rump invaded his space once more the Joker threw his hands up in defeat and aggravation.   
  
"You can take your little rat and leave now," Harley hissed from the back seat.  
  
"Shhh," the Joker told her, turning his head slightly to look at her. She was pouting, her bottom lip thrust out petulantly as she did her best to look thoroughly not amused. The Joker winked at her and she looked away, trying to resist his charm. Hoisting herself upright once more, Chickie giggled and rubbed away the lipstick smudges she left on Marx's face. 

"You take good care of my man and make sure you bring him back in one piece, kay? He needs to look his best Friday night."   
  
"You just make sure to keep those weapons of mass destruction tucked in their shells," said the Joker, nodding towards her as she readjusted her breasts.  
  
"Shut up," she snapped absently.  
  
"Yeah, look respectful, OK?" Marx advised. "You are missing me, you want a shoulder to cry on."  
  
"Oh," said Chickie, looking up confusedly. "Oh, you mean I'm not supposed to get him interested?"  
  
"It's all about sex with you, isn't it," the Joker tsked.   
  
"It was really nice to meetcha!" Harley shouted, jumping up in her seat and grabbing Chickie's hand, shaking it furiously. "But we gotta run, Chicklet."  
  
"That's Chickie," corrected Chickie between her teeth.  
  
Gripping the Joker's headrest between her fingers, Harley replied tightly, "Whatever."  
  
"Let's get out of here before the acrylics and hairspray break out," whispered Joker to Marx, feeling Harley's anger radiating behind him. "Pumpkin, sit down, we're leaving."  
  
"Get your hair touched up," Chickie said, going for the Joker's hair if he didn't block her gold acrylic claws with his arm. She made several playful attempts to dump her cigarette ash on his head, all efforts met with light slaps on the back of her hands and high-pitching barks.  
   
"Chickie," Marx said testily, eying her warningly. Chickie backed off and stepped away from the car. "Give Harley back her watch."  
  
"HEY!" Harley cried, clutching her wrist after Marx said this, realizing the watch she had rightfully stolen from the big house was gone. Chickie giggled impishly and tossed the watch to Harley, who caught it and glared at the thief. As the car started, Chickie suddenly remembered her precious pet and snatched Pica back.   
  
"Wave bye-bye to Daddy," squeaked Chickie as she lamely bobbed Pica up and down while her other hand held her cigarette perfectly poised. Chickie glowered when the Joker waved back to the dog, tickling it under its chin. Chickie sharply pulled away. "Not you, asshole."  
  
"Phew!" the Joker exclaimed as they pulled away from the curb to the right lane and paused for a stop sign. "What is that rancid stench, I wonder?"   
  
Before Chickie could form an adequate comeback, they were already speeding around the corner and out of sight.  
  


* * *

  
  
Thomas watched Dr. Crane roam around the condo all day, completely engrossed in his work and thoughts. He would stay in the laboratory upstairs until overcome with frustration and then wander around, often coming into the bedroom to pull out notebook upon notebook from the boxes Jervis had so kindly put them in when he rescued them from Jonathan's apartment. Thomas did not mind, even when Dr. Crane got in the way of the television. Lying on his stomach at the foot of the bed, watching Dr. Crane stand in front of him in deep thought, muttering under his breath, Thomas was suddenly struck with a wave of emotions. Reaching out, Thomas grasped Dr. Crane's arm, hoping to divert his attention as he had always been able to so effortlessly in the past. Jonathan did not even notice the touch, and turning away as a new brainstorm gathered in his mind, left the bedroom once more.   
  
Narrowing his eyes at the back of the door, Thomas felt his emotions quickly ebb away into dissatisfaction, then back to their usual state of inertia. When Jonathan returned less than an hour later, he had Jervis's portable house phone in his hands. Nervously, Jonathan dialed a number he had copied into a small black book he had not looked twice at in years. His back towards Thomas as he sat on the side of his bed, Jonathan jumped up as soon as the familiar voice picked up the phone.  
  
  
"Kim, how are you? It's Professor Crane." Jonathan got up and went on to pace around the apartment. When Thomas heard the words coming out of Dr. Crane's mouth, he snapped to attention and glared menacingly at him.  
  
"What?" Thomas said icily, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he followed Jonathan, remaining several feet behind him as the man took on humored, even flirtatious tones Thomas had come to strictly associate with himself. The longer the conversation went, the more infuriated Thomas became until the second Dr. Crane hung up the phone, finally taking notice of the seething man.  
  
"Thomas," chided Jonathan with an eye roll, "I know you don't play well with others, but I need a fresh perspective on this because I'm not getting anywhere. She'll be here for a few hours tomorrow, that's it."  
  
Fidgeting uncomfortably, Thomas suddenly sat on the floor and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look at his lover. Jonathan stared down at him with a mixture of frustration and sympathy. Kimberly von Brandt was one of Crane's prized grad-students from GSU, a fierce woman who stuck by him during _the incident_ that removed him from his position and sent him to Arkham. She had met Thomas once before, years ago, shortly after Thomas had been freed from Arkham to move in with Jonathan. Things did not go well, to say the very least.   
From his position on the floor, Thomas's mind raced as he tried to think of a way to stop this woman from coming over and hogging Dr. Crane's attention. He suddenly looked up at Jonathan, a smile on his face and forced hunger in his eyes as he tugged on the hem of Jonathan's shirt.  
  
"Nice try," Jonathan replied, pulling his shirt back, but Thomas was determined, and pulled back until he knew Jonathan was putting his strength into it and suddenly letting him go, Thomas laughed under his breath as Jonathan tumbled to the floor. "Thomas!"  
  
Crawling over to him, Thomas laid down on Dr. Crane's chest, pinning him to the floor as he curled up and closed his eyes, running his hands through Jonathan's hair.  
  
"What are we going to do about this?" Jonathan asked, more to himself as he rubbed Thomas's ear, finding comfort in the knowledge of the tattoo behind there, proclaiming Thomas as  _his_.   
  
"Don't you love me anymore?" Thomas whispered against his neck. Taking a deep breath as he put his arms around the frail man, Jonathan fiercely hugged him in response.  
  


\------------

  
  
The news never reported one way or the other about bodies being found or not in the mysterious warehouse explosion by Blackgate Prison. As a favor to Two-Face, Arbuckle had gone down there himself once the fuzz had cleared out. Not only did he find no trace of any living being, but no car parts remained either. It was enough bad news to make him seriously reconsider his current ZIP code.   
  
Boxy Bennett was no help during dinner, smiling like a buffoon at Arbuckle and Chickie from afar; those smug, knowing looks that told Arbuckle he should grab it while it's hot, moving in on Marx's fiancée. Luckily, Chickie appeared to be as self-absorbed and clueless as ever to Boxy's suggestive comments and leers.   
  
After walking Chickie to Marx's apartment door and bidding her a friendly goodnight, Arbuckle walked the thirteen blocks west to his apartment. The late setting summer sun glowing toxic orange against Gotham City, Arbuckle shaded his eyes as he walked up the steps to his building before the distinct noise of five guns cocking rooted him to the spot. Turning around slowly, Arbuckle already knew what he was about to come face to face with.   
  
"Evening, Fatty," said the Joker, leaning against a limousine parked alongside the curb. Marx and Zigs flanked him with Harley and Roach aiming their guns from inside the car, Harley popped up through the sunroof like a deranged Jack-in-the-Box, and Roach from the driver's seat window.  
  
"Aw, shit," grumbled Arbuckle, knowing that to play dumb now would merely demean everyone.  
  
"You almost got us," the Joker continued conversationally with a predatory smile on his painted face. "I bet Two-Face would have laughed and laughed, which would almost have made this turncoat behavior of yours worth it." He sighed theatrically. "But knowing Two-Face as I do, he wouldn't have even cracked a smile. So your treason was all for naught."  
  
With a frustrated growl, Arbuckle pointed accusingly at Harley and cried, "I would've never done it if it weren't for her!"  
  
Taken aback, Harley looked wounded and confused, reassured only when the Joker rested his free hand atop her blonde head as he momentarily gazed over his shoulder at her.   
  
"You went too far," Marx said calmly. "Trying to take us all out."  
  
"Well, what the hell was I supp-"  
  
"Fatty," interrupted the Joker with his wicked, dazzling smile and maliciously glittering dark eyes, "It's been a thin slice of heaven, but we're going to have to release you from your contract now."  
  
Arbuckle did not have time to respond as he was pummeled with bullets from five different guns, his arms out as his body convulsed until each gun was emptied, and with a resounding thud, Fatty's lifeless body collapsed onto the steps and rolled down onto the sidewalk before his murderers' feet.  
  
Regarding the body dispassionately, the Joker looked from lackey to lackey before saying, "Anyone feel like Chinese? I'm  _starving_."  
  


\-------------

  
  
On Thursday, when Roach realized that what he had previously thought to be some sort of space station was really a barbeque grill he decided to make something he called beer can chicken. It involved sticking said can of beer up the chicken's rear end, much to the disgust of Zigs and the amusement of everyone else.  
  
"That ain't right, man," said Zigs, watching Roach from the comfort of the shaded back patio.   
  
"Why not?" Roach cried, positioning the chicken on the grill. "You've had stuffing before right?"  
  
"It just ain't right to stick a can of PBR up a chicken's ass, that's all I'm sayin'."   
  
Overhearing this from the open balcony doors in the master bedroom, the Joker chuckled before turning to see Harley stroll into the adjacent bathroom, her hips swaying to the music wafting in from the downstairs stereo the boys had blasting. Watching her crawl up on the red tiled dais where a built-in Jacuzzi bathtub and start running a bath, the Joker unconsciously gnawed on the scar inside his mouth as he let his mind wander aimlessly.   
  
He didn't let Arbuckle explain why his hate of Harley had festered so deeply it made him turn stoolie, and typically once a lackey was gone, he never entered the Joker's train of thought ever again. It wasn't even Arbuckle himself that made the Joker think, it was his words.

" _If it weren't for her..."  
  
What did that even mean?_ Joker wondered as he stared at Harley, who by all outward appearances seemed to be blissfully unaware of his heavy gaze, but was in fact reveling in it. Harley never did anything to Arbuckle. Oh, sure...she could be a pest sometimes but she only really ever pestered him. No one else ever complained, and she certainly never fucked things up enough to warrant rage from anyone other than him, who should be the only one raining down punishment anyway.   
He knew he was intimidating...and that, as a rule, he did not care what sort of personal drama his employees had with any other individual...but these four men - whom he had personally named - had always been continually spared of a less than savory fate due to their blind commitment, valuable services, and ability to communicate with him without provoking his maniacal fury.  
  
"Mister J..." Harley called sweetly, drawing him out of his thoughts. Looking up, a devious smile spread across his face as he watched Harley, perched on the raised tiled box window seat, playfully kicking the water in the bathtub.  
   
 _Now, who couldn't love a little minx who draws me a bath?_  He asked himself, deciding to indulge her shameless display of assumption. He had been pensive over the past twenty-four hours, rarely speaking to anyone and always in heavy reverie. No longer banished to the pink room, Harley was on egg shells around the Joker, finding his silence worse than his most violent tempers. At least when he was on the warpath she had an inkling of how to handle it. He let her shadow him, however, as she kept her distance, only now displaying initiative towards bridging the gap between them.   
  
"All for me?" he asked, standing arms akimbo in the bathroom doorway, tapping his bare feet against the cool tile.   
  
" _All_ for you," she replied deeply, then after a pause broke into a wide, silly smile as her voice took on the babyish pitch. "Of course, if you feel like sharin', I wouldn't refuse."  
  
"Oh, I know you won't," the Joker said, removing his clothes quickly and absently. "I've taught you better manners than that."  
  
"Mmhm," agreed Harley, trying desperately to keep the flush from her girlish face and her eyes slightly lowered, though completely helpless to watch him disrobe and climb into the tub, resting his back against the side where she sat, her legs on either side of him.   
  
"Whatcha thinkin' about, Mister J?" Harley asked as she began to massage his shoulders. Scooping up a pile of bubbles, the Joker wiped them on her face as he replied.  
  
"If I want you to know, pumpkin, I will tell you."  
  
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles tickled her. Leaning forward she pressed a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades apologetically. Harley knew herself better than that, and she chastised herself appropriately.   
  
 _She has respect and can admit when she's wrong. She knows her place. And just where is her place, exactly?_ He asked himself for the first time. Under him, naturally, in every sense of the word. Under his thumb, under his rule, under his body writhing in pleasure, under his fist crying out in pain and fear, her blood and tears on his fingertips. Under him like when he looks, as he is looking now, on the reflection of the water and sees her there with him. Even though she sits above him on the window ledge, the water's reflection showed the real truth. And that is what it all boiled down to, he realized at that moment. A reflection. A reflection of him, of his creativity and awesome power over the human mind. He had killed Dr. Harleen Quinzel in that dreary Arkham office...killed her dead and good, and out of her ashes reconstructed an extension of himself, because he put his all into the making of Harley Quinn and damned if he wasn't going to take the bow for it.   
  
Coming out of his reverie, the Joker saw her tiny hand gripped in his over his shoulder. When did that happen?   
  
"Going to join me, Harleykins?"  
  
With a squeal of delight, Harley stood up in the bathtub behind him and removed her little pink crop top, which barely covered her bouncing little breasts. Turning around to face her, the Joker raised his wet hands and unbuttoned her cut-off denim shorts, roughly yanking them down along with her panties into the tub around her ankles. Careful not to use him for balance, Harley masterfully stepped out of her bottoms, the Joker flinging the wet clothes across the bathroom, his tongue between his lips with a playful glint in his eyes. Grasping the back of her firm thighs, he pulled her forward until his tongue was running against the slit of her pussy.   
He ran his tongue in long, languid strokes that drew out the most appetizing little breathless gasps from Harley as her trembling fingers ran through his matted, multicolored hair. Sitting tall, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her backside, the Joker opened his mouth against her smooth, hairless pubis, hungry growls coming from deep within his chest. Stabbing his tongue rapidly in her, teasing her engorged clit, Harley's hips helplessly quivered as his mouth filled her, feasted on her until her hips defiantly thrust upwards, and with a piercing cry, she thunderously came.   
He didn't wait for her to gather her bearings before pulling her down to sit opposite him in his lap, his cock sliding into her with slick ease. Wrapping her legs and arms around him, Harley eagerly began to grind against him.  
  
"Easy, pumpkin," he laughed, smoothing back the stray blond hair that escaped her pigtails.  
  
"Sorry, Daddy," Harley panted softly against his neck. Pulling her back to face him, the Joker cradled the back of her head, his fingers knotted in her hair as he stared down at her face, flushed with arousal and clouded with adoration. Not a shred of obstinate individuality, all traces of her former life completely wiped from her eyes. It dawned on him just how stunningly beautiful she was right then.   
  
Lowering his mouth to hers, he flicked his tongue over her lips and she obediently parted them, accepting his tongue with a moan of ardent submission. Snaking his free arm around her waist, pumping her up and down, their lips remained fiercely locked. Building a steady rhythm, the bath water sloshing in and out of the tub like waves, their breathing became too erratic to remain as is, and abruptly parted breathlessly. His dark eyes bore into her expressive blues, his mind slipping back to his earlier train of thought.   
  
Everything she said and did was going to be a representation of him, now more than ever as their climactic performance to the Gotham general public drew near. This responsibility might have been shirked any ordinary man but not him. Oh, no. He was the Joker...and he knew he was **extraordinary.  
**  
Joker's vocalizations matched Harley's, his guttural groans complimenting her gasping shrieks. Dipping his face between her shoulder and neck, he bit down hard against her skin, resulting in a deepening of her voice, a long, drawn out moan as he held onto the skin and shook it to and fro. She would live to serve him, all questions in her life only ending with one defining answer: to bring a smile to his face. There was no other purpose greater than to complement him, his living, breathing accessory that fought for him, cried for him, bled for him, and yes, even cared for him.   
  
Clutching his back, her sharp little nails lodged into his skin as she gritted her teeth, Harley grunted as he slammed her against the rim of the tub, fucking her mercilessly. Supporting her against his body with rapid upward thrusts, the Joker buried himself in her to the hilt of his cock. Unable to stop herself from furiously grinding, squeezing her muscles around his cock as she felt him shudder, their orgasms peaking in unison, Harley threw her head back with a deafening cry.   
Bending her back into the water, on top and inside of her still, the Joker pried her mouth open with his tongue, claiming his territory once more. Her ears began to fill with water, but Harley paid no mind to the discomfort as she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and raked her fingers through his hair.   
  
  
From downstairs and outside, Roach's voice filled the room.  
"Hey! Chicken's done!"  
"I ain't eating no chicken with a can of beer up its ass!"  
"What? I just slaved over this fucking bird and you're not even gonna try it?"  
"It ain't right, man! There's, like, aluminum and shit mixing with meat."  
"Fine, fuck you. Go find your own goddamn dinner."  
  
Releasing Harley into the water to watch her silly, surprised face as she plunged into the water and resurfaced, hair sopping wet against her face, the Joker began to laugh hysterically. Harley joined in and blushed appropriately when he got out of the tub and turned to offer her his hand.   
  
  
 **TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated.  
> \- Cookies for those who recognized two more additions to the Batman character scavenger hunt.  
> \- Pica is named for the genus of birds, just in case you were wondering.  
> \- I do think it is perfectly reasonable to assume that the Joker can have banter with people that don't always end up in him attempting to kill them. Chickie in particular is the type of person who is so self-absorbed she doesn't see that bantering with the Joker is like playing with fire, and this amuses him to no end, especially since she still manages to pay him some attention by taking the bait with every nasty remark he flings at her.   
> \- Grilled Beer Can Chicken! http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/beer-can-chicken-51175350  
> \- Joker calling himself extraordinary is a very poor attempt at a Peter Pan reference. Kudos for who can read into my vague bullshit and get that.  
> \- Dirty sex. I know you kids just can't get enough, you insatiable monkey's


	14. Ace of Spades: Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The energy that is within us all; the essential force of being. It cannot be denied.

In the dining room, Zigs, Marx and Joker were discussing the logistics for the evening's big show, even though Marx would not be around to participate directly. Harley and Roach were enjoying left over beer grilled chicken early Friday afternoon as they poured over the newspaper that was conveniently delivered each morning, just like a television show. Harley took the comics while Roach took the advertisements, spreading the rest of the paper haphazardly across the floor of the family room.  
  
Disentangling the advertisements that stuck close to the article he was reading, Roach discarded the offending ads between him and Harley. All of the rustling drew Harley's attention away from the comics and her eyes fell on what Roach had just been wrestling with.  
  
"Oh, lookie!" Harley cried, picking up the paper and scooting closer to the young man. "Monster Truck rally, one weekend only! Saturday at Gotham Arena!"  
"You want to go to a Monster truck show?" Roach asked confusedly.  
"No, look at those cars! I betcha we could smash a lotta pig mobiles with one of those suckers."  
Roach's eyes lit up as Harley eagerly got up and ran into the dining room to share her idea with Mister J.  
  


\------

  
  
Sometime in the late afternoon as Zigs and Roach prepared the supplies that would be needed for their evening activities, Joker pulled Harley aside to the master bedroom bathroom. Thinking Mister J was in the mood for another romp in the tub, Harley was perplexed when he stoically handed her a box of sugarfree kiwi-lime Kool Aid. Shrugging at her questioning eyes, Joker just answered, "My usual brand went up in flames with the rest of the crap we couldn't grab in time."  
  
"I'm sorry," replied Harley sympathetically, finally comprehending he meant to have her touch up the green in his hair, which had been increasingly fading back to shades of brown and dark blond. It was the first time Harley had noticed the more natural colors, but to her they were out place, unnatural. It was grimy green and sickly chartreuse when they had first met and Harley loved it that way.  
  
 _Cover up those boring, common tones only suited for lesser beings, Puddin',_ thought Harley as she ran the hot water in the plugged up pedestal sink and emptied all of the packets into the water.  
  
Swaying back and forth impatiently, Joker watched Harley through dull eyes as she stirred the beverage powder into the water using the handles of the toothbrushes left from the owner, then proceeded to test the water out with her fingers, drawing them back with a sharp hiss. Smirking at her pain, Joker glided past her and into the linen closet, grabbing a towel for his benefit, before winding it up and snapping her backside with it. Biting down on her scorched fingers as she yelped, Harley turned to beam at him adoringly, gigging behind the digits in her mouth.  
  
"All right, it's fine," he said with finality, dropping the towel at her feet before whipping his hair expertly into his hands and dunking head first into the wide rimmed pedestal style sink. "Mmm...I do love lime," Joker crooned, slurping and spitting out the kiwi-lime flavored water as Harley plunged her hands into the green liquid and began to scrub his scalp.  
  
"I could make you limeade sometime, Mister J," Harley offered, feeling light as a cloud, comforting warmth spreading throughout her body as she massaged his head, making sure every strand of hair was soaking in the green.  
  
"Tasty, tasty lime disease," he tittered in response, blowing bubbles from his upside down position in the sink.  
  
"Mmm yeah," sighed Harley wistfully, pleasantly lost in her felicity.  
  


\------

  
  
Thomas woke with a start, his heart rabbiting rapidly as he strained to remember what had happened. Sitting up, his head pounding like a jackhammer, Thomas recognized his surroundings as Jonathan's guest room at the Tetch apartment. Realizing he was naked, Thomas came to the conclusion that he had once again talked Dr. Crane into using the fear toxin on him. He must have used a stronger dose than usual as Thomas struggled to piece together the events earlier in the day.  
  
Looking at the clock, Thomas was alarmed to see that it was six o'clock, the time when that damn former student was coming over. Finding his pants, Thomas hurriedly dressed and marched over to the door, determined to keep a watchful eye on that whore, but cried out in frustrated rage as he discovered the door was locked from the outside.  
  
Hearing the wild, beastly cries coming from his bedroom, Scarecrow put down the tea he was making for Kim and himself.  
  
"Still with Thomas, I see," said Kim with a smirk on her face. He shot her a reprimanding glare before going out to the living room, his hands on his hips as he was determined not to let Thomas get to Jonathan and fuck up his focus.  
  
"I'm sorry, Thomas," he called dispassionately over the hideous noise. "I will let you out when Ms. von Brandt leaves, I promise. I just can't have your petty jealousy ruining my work."  
From his kneeling position, Thomas stopped beating the door with his fists to pause and think. Dr. Crane would let him out, but...Thomas concentrated, knowing he had an obligation somewhere. Digging in his pockets, he found a cell phone and remembered his appointment with the Joker that evening.  
  
"Dr. Crane," Thomas cried desperately. "I'll be good, I promise. Unlock the door, please. Pretty please. I'll just leave and you two can work in peace."  
  
"Leave?" Scarecrow repeated, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I don't want you to leave, Thomas. I just want you to stay out of my way so I can work."  
  
"I know, but...I _need_ to leave."  
  
"And just where are you planning to go?" Scarecrow asks, suspicion rising like hairs on the back on ones neck. He knows the clown is up to something, but he'll be damned if he will permit Thomas to be involved this time.  
  
"Uh...home?" It was a poorly concealed lie, but Thomas's clouded mind could not tell.  
  
"Thomas."  
  
"Yes, Dr. Crane?" asked Thomas as sweetly as he could.  
  
"You are home."  
  
With a small breathless gasp, Thomas's eyes widened as he realized he was not talking to Dr. Crane, Thomas renewed his efforts and bellowed, "LET ME OUT!"  
  
With a sigh of indifference, Scarecrow turned and went back into the kitchen to check on the steeping tea.  
  


* * *

  
  
Joker glared darkly out the window of the boosted limousine as Roach drove them into Gotham City. He really could have used Marx and Fatty there with them, as he did not trust anyone else but his most loyal of subordinates with such a task like the one they were pulling tonight. Fatty was excused, naturally, since Joker never regretted killing anyone, but Marx had been given the night off to attend his engagement party with Margaret "Chickie" Pye, his bride to be. Initially finding the notion hilarious, unable to stop laughing as he imagined the six foot eight man in a monkey suit surrounded by would-be in-law's that would draw their poorly hidden guns and shoot Marx dead had they any inkling where his income came from.  
  
Oh, to be a fly on the wall at that shindig, watching his stoic lackey sweating bullets while Chickie, brainless, tactless, gaudy thing that she was; clucked away with the other hens of the Pye clan, willfully ignorant to her man's discomfort. Now, Joker failed to see the humor in the situation anymore. He didn't know who he was angrier at, Marx for losing sight of his priorities, or Chickie for always being so amusingly self-centered enough to have him spare her life, curious to see what sort of conceited shenanigans she would get herself into next.  
  
Now he had to stretch his man power. Zigs would be dropped off first, as he had three buildings to hit. Joker insisted he meet up with some helping hands, a new pair of masked clowns for every target, the previous pair ordered for immediate termination as soon as Zig's job was completed.  
  
"Do you think they're going to recognize this limo?" Roach asked nervously as he turned down the street where the 501 luxury apartments were located.  
  
"Nah," Zigs said reassuringly, trying to stop himself from casting nervous glances at their boss. "Places like this have limo's coming and going every day. Besides, that was a week ago. A week of crime in Gotham is like a year's worth to the rest of the world. This baby's been long forgotten."  
  
Nonetheless, Roach remained in the driver's seat after he pulled into the U-bend driveway. Harley rolled down the window and ecstatically waved her arms towards the lobby, trying to catch the attention of a very fidgety Thomas Schiff, who was walking in circles nervously as he gnawed on the skin between his right hand index finger and thumb.  
  
Harley whistled loudly. "Hey, Thomas! Are ya comin' or what? We don't got all night!"  
  
The whistle startling him from his racing thoughts, Thomas jumped to attention and raced outside to join his ride, relieved that his disappearance had yet to be noticed.  
  


\---------

  
  
"You know, those wanted posters of you are kinda cute, Professor Crane," said Kim von Brandt as she led the way down the staircase, Jonathan behind her. I might need one for my wall at home, right above my bed."  
  
"Your schoolgirl crush, while mildly inappropriate for your age, continues to flatter me nonetheless."  
  
Kim turned around at the bottom of the stairs and asked him squarely, "What are you going to do about it though?"   
  
"Part of me doesn't want to rise to the bait and sink to his level of brutish behavior. It's all so theatrical."  
  
"Yeah?" Kim said, eyeing him knowingly. "And what does Scarecrow say?"  
  
Crane smirked and rolled his blue eyes. "Take the clown down and wipe the streets with his garish smile."  
  
"Now, that's more like it," she replied, poking the tip of his nose playfully before giving him a wink and starting across the apartment, intent on seeing herself out. Jonathan followed her and held the door open. "Good luck, Professor Crane. Let me know if you need any further assistance."  
  
"Thank you, Kim."  
  
"Be sure to tell Thomas I didn't make a pass at you...this time."  
  
"I'm sure he will appreciate that," Jonathan turned to look at the bedroom door, astonished to see it partially opened. The smile died on his lips.  
  


\---------

  
  
At approximately nine o'clock Eastern Time, a strange phenomenon occurred with the radio stations in Gotham City. Regardless of genre, both AM and FM stations began to simultaneously play Dave "Baby" Cortez's _The Happy Organ_. No amount of fiddling with the dial tuned out the upbeat instrumental chart topper of 1959. When the song faded out, a squeaky, nasal lilt rang out like a herald to the sun itself.  
  
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you a special announcement from the number one man on this year's most wanted list, the Joker!" Canned applause rang out like a rerun of _You Bet Your Life,_ followed by a chillingly jeering voice all Gothamites had come to associate with paralyzing fear.  
  
"Good evening Gotham. I know you're all looking forward to getting back to your Friday night tunes so I will be brief. Never mind I'm sure Commissioner Gordon has already sicced his pet Bat on me!" He let out a maniacal howl before abruptly stopping, resuming his speech. "Y'see, folks. I realize where the flaw was when we last saw one another. I trapped Gothamites in the city and declared everyone fair game. Well that was just positively greedy of me, I see that now...spending three months in an institution for the criminally insane really gave me a lot of time to...reflect. You know, those therapists at Arkham really are dedicated to their work. Mine was particularly keen to help me out any way she could." Laughter. Cold blooded, insane laughter.  
  
"Through all of that extensive therapy, I came to the shocking discovery that I am not much of a people person. Who'da thunk it? So this is the new deal: The Clown Prince of Crime here has realized he really doesn't want all of you boring SOB's hanging around his burg. So he's giving you twenty-four hours to pack up the station wagon and move on out. No tricks, no blowing up airports or overpasses, no one fell swoop annihilation showboating. Scout's honor. I simply don't want my city overrun with you...lemmings, if you will. You would just get in the way of me...and the _real_ citizens of Gotham.  
  
"That's right...I'm talking to you all out there listening right now...not with fright but with curiosity. You know who you are; you toil away for hours working on a grand vision, one so dear to your heart you just don't. Understand. Why. Nobody. Gets. The. Damn. Joke. You'd do anything for this vision to see reality...rob those wealthier than you, trade secrets, bomb the enemy, kidnap, perform illicit experiments in the basement of your workplace, even come back from the dead to make it all happen. But no one ever understands, do they? **DO THEY?** No. But I do.  
  
"And I'm inviting each and every one of you to come out of the shadows and play with your Uncle Joker. Tomorrow night, Gotham is mine and you are my special guests. Of course, there are two of you who need a little, ah, encouragement, since you don't think I play fair. And seeing how I would love to collect a little reward for all of my efforts, I expect to see you, Scarecrow, out on the streets tomorrow night, trick or treating with the rest of us. And don't think I've forgotten about you, Harvey Two-Face Dent! I want you to come out and show your real face to the city you worked so very, very hard to protect. BOTH of them!" His fanatical laughter sent chills down the spines of those listeners too afraid (or mesmerized) to change the dial on their radio's.  
  
"Well, I think this about wraps things up...meaning, I think I gave Batman enough time to figure out that my little radio program was just a recording and I am long gone from all of the stations. Cue frustrated Bat cry!"  
  
Having just burst through the door of K-GTH radio station, the main source for a variety of broadcasts on the Gotham radio waves, Batman charged his way to the main operative DJ booth, clenching his fist and growling in frustration as he discovered that all of the station's programming, including the Joker's twisted broadcast, had been on a timer set by other hands, the building littered with the bodies of disc jockey's and the rest of the K-GTH staff, cold for some time now. The last bit of the Joker's performance continued as Batman gnashed his teeth angrily, trying to figure out where to go from here.  
  
"Thanks for tuning in, Gotham. A big heaping thanks to our sponsor, Gotham City Funeral Pyre and Interment. Because you can't spell funeral without REAL FUN!"  
  


* * *

  
  
A stunningly attractive woman blew a red lock away from her eyes as she sat hunched over a work table pruning a potted foxglove. Her classical music shortly returned and she hoped that the vile clown's voice had not disturbed the peace of the several dozen plants in the greenhouse she currently resided at.  
"Pig," she huffed under her breath.  
  


\----------

  
  
Jervis Tetch had stayed late in his laboratory at work, knowing that Jonathan needed his home lab and obligingly granted him free access until he exhausted all of his tools and resources at work and had to come home to his own private materials.  
While he soldered away, putting the finishing touches on his magnum opus, Jervis had been listening to the radio when the Joker's interruption came on. Too engrossed in his work to turn the radio off, Jervis listened to the madman's words and slowly began to pay attention. Now, it was over and the sudden return of Duke Ellington woke Jervis up from his trance. Raising his head up and stretching his back, Jervis lifted the protective goggles onto his forehead and cracked his neck, trying to loosen the tension. Staring down at the small, blank white index-card shape and size item, Jervis felt a swell of paternal love. Humming to himself, Jervis picked up a black felt tip pen and proceeded to mark the stack of cleverly devised microchips with the sum of 10/6.  
  


\----------

  
  
A young woman with long, curling black hair stood outside a storefront, watching the way the overhead showcase lights made all of the trinkets sparkle and shine. A jingling noise was heard and a young salesclerk poked her head out the door, smiling.  
"We're closing in about five minutes. Is there anything I can help you with?"  
"No, thank you," the young woman said with an equally winning smile. She clutched tight to the pointed mask in her leather jacket pocket. "I'll just swing by later."  
  


\----------

  
  
Oswald Cobblepot sat at his desk in his office at the Iceberg Lounge, his hands steepled as he mulled over what he had just heard on the radio. Out of his peripherals he spotted his long-handled umbrella and a slow smirk curled its way on his face.  
  


\----------

  
  
A mild-mannered man, barely thirty, with muddy brown hair in a deep forest green suit had been attempting to tune into his favorite news talk radio show when it was quite rudely taken over by the raving lunatic known only as Joker. Begrudgingly listening to the clownish madman's rambling, the prim man turned back to his New York Times crossword puzzle, only half listening over a cup of coffee, tapping his pen in Morse code as he thought of 34 down: Mystification, nine letters. He answered: _Conundrum_. Eyeing the overlapping 66 across: Conceited (twelve letters) just as the Joker topped off his little show with his quite predictable punch line, the man in the dark green suit saw the answer and deftly scribbled it in: _Vainglorious_.  
  
Raising his eyebrows at the word as Joker's laughter rang out in his small kitchen, the man brought his mug to his mouth, murmuring to himself, "My thoughts exactly."  
  


\----------

  
  
Tapping her foot impatiently against the marble floor of the hall, Chickie glared daggers at Marx's back as he stood around with his future in-laws discussing how to react to Joker's radio threat. Pretending to not be involved was easier when his fiancé wasn't standing fifteen feet behind him on the verge of scratching out his eyes.  
"He did it on purpose, didn't he? To ruin my night!" Chickie hissed when Marx was cut loose from the impromptu meeting, his in-laws not wanting to spoil the groom-to-be's good time.  
"Babe, you think way too highly of yourself," replied Marx not unkindly, slipping an arm around her birdlike shoulders.  
  


\----------

  
  
  
"I suppose this is some sort of private revolt on your part, Thomas?"  
  
"No," Thomas sighed. He was sitting on his bed in his back house at home, Natalia playing with his old _Ninja Turtle_ action figures on the foot of his bed, eyeing her brother worriedly, which went completely unnoticed by him.  
  
"Then why are you there and not here with me?"  
  
"You locked me in the room, Dr Crane," replied Thomas with a dangerous undertone in his otherwise soft-spoken voice.  
  
"You made it perfectly clear that you did not want Miss von Brandt assisting me. And while I usually cherish your eccentric territorial behavior, I could not risk you harming her, which I know you would have most certainly done."  
  
"I told you I would have left," Thomas replied tersely, rubbing his forehead absently as a dull thudding sensation started up. "I had somewhere to go."  
  
"Well you obviously made it to your appointment. But why didn't you come back, after you did whatever it is you had to do?"  
  
"I don't know," said Thomas childishly. His mind was cloudy and he was developing an excruciating headache.  
  
Jonathan laughed humorlessly as he said, "I suppose it had something to do with that ludicrous radio scheme the Joker broadcasted?"  
  
"Don't laugh, Dr. Crane."  
  
"Why not? It's like waving a big red flag at the cops and Batman, daring them to catch him. I wouldn't be surprised if they were caught before his little war on the streets of Gotham can even begin."  
  
"He's serious, Dr. Crane."  
  
"Undoubtedly," Crane replied sarcastically.  
  
"I don't want you to get hurt," Thomas whispered with the utmost seriousness, finally stabbing through Jonathan's cool exterior.  
  
"Thomas," Jonathan breathed before regaining his composure and continuing. "Listen, I don't want to talk about Joker anymore. I want to talk about us and how this is going to get fixed." He paused and finally took the condescending tone out of his voice. "Thomas, you do want us to reconcile, right?"  
  
"Yes, Dr. Crane," Thomas breathed softly into the mouth of his cell phone. He heard a sigh of relief on the other end.  
  
"All right. First of all, we really need to talk about...exuberant indulgences on both our parts." Dr. Crane made a little noise of frustration and Thomas could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, right under the nosepiece of his glasses, like he had witnessed so many times before. A soft smile playing on his lips at the imagery, Thomas almost did not hear when Dr. Crane said, "Thomas, I really do not wish to have this conversation over the phone. Let me come and get you-"  
  
Everything went black before Thomas's eyes.  
  
"Dr. Crane?" Thomas cried, panic in his voice.  
  
"Thomas?" asked Jonathan, thinking the cell phone may have dropped service. "Can you hear me?"  
  
Thomas's vision came back to him, but an oddly discolored blinking light flashed before his right eye, making it impossible for him to focus. Opening his mouth to reply to Dr. Crane, Thomas lurched forward in pain, his head feeling like it was ripping in two.  
  
"Thomas?" Natalia shrieked, her cries heard by Dr. Crane on the other side.  
  
"Thomas!" Dr. Crane shouted. "What's going on?"  
  
The pain was beyond any imaginable words, and Thomas could only vocalize his suffering through the most blood curdling screams that Dr. Crane had ever heard in his life.  
  
"Thomas! Thomas!" Dr. Crane shouted repeatedly, "What's happening, damn it? Tell me!" He could hear Thomas's little sister's hysterical screams directly under Thomas's agonizing cries. Jervis came out from his laboratory and stood at the railing overlooking the living room, curious about all the shouting.  
  
Squeezing his eyes tight as if he could shut out the blinding pain tearing through his skull, Thomas managed to grip the phone tightly in his hand.  
 _  
"Jonathan,"_ Thomas pleaded, the world collapsing into darkness around him.  
  
Sucking in his breath, Crane's heart froze momentarily before he replied, "Thomas, I'm on my way."  
  


* * *

  
  
Joker tried not to look amused but the glint in his eyes betrayed him, even if his permanent smile did not. They were cruising around Gotham with Zigs at the wheel of the limousine, the radio blasting as Harley and Roach stood up and sang out the sunroof, caterwauling at the top of their lungs with any tune they were familiar with.  
  
 _"I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back  
I been everywhere, still I'm standing tall  
I've seen a million faces, and I rocked them all  
'Cause I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride  
'Cause I'm wanted dead or alive  
I'm a cowboy, I got the night on my side  
'Cause I'm wanted dead or alive!"_  
  
Zigs made a sharp turn, sending the two crooners sprawling across the limousine floor and interior as they laughed hysterically trying to crawl back onto the seat while still maintaining the song.  
  
"We going anywhere in particular?" asked Zigs as the song faded and turned to a commercial, prompting him to turn down the volume.  
  
"I feel like celebrating," said Joker from his position in the back seat, his arms spread wide across the top like a regal king. "Chickie hasn't called us squawking her head off yet, so we can't expect to see Marx escaping from her talons quite yet...oh, I know. Let's grab Thomas. He did take the time to temporarily take over that hideous rap station for us. He'll be at his house...from what I gathered he and Crane had a little, ah, domestic spat."  
  
Zigs nodded dutifully. "Schiff residence it is."  
  


\----------

 

 

  
_Christ, another one,_ Commissioner Gordon thought wearily as the medics wheeled out a seventh body from the K-GTH radio headquarters. Out of his peripherals he saw a pointed shadow around the side of the building and casually followed it. The Dark Knight was waiting for him, ready to discuss the Joker's sickness spreading all over Gotham as citizens were scrambling to leave the island.  
  
"Where to start?" Jim Gordon asked the vigilante.  
"The woman at the beginning of the program," replied Batman with a tinge of excitement in his voice.  
"Dr. Quinzel?" Gordon said, though it wasn't much of a question.  
"Has to be." Unable to contain his excitement, Batman added, "She's still alive."  
"That she is," replied Gordon dubiously, unable to share the thrill. It had been no surprise to him. "What are your thoughts? You know, about her involvement?"  
"Involvement?" Batman repeated, practically spitting the word back at Gordon. "Joker has coerced her somehow into his psychotic game."  
Gordon nodded, keeping his suspicions to himself. He did not want to push Batman's trust by alienating him with doubts conjured from Joker himself. Sensing Gordon's reluctance, Batman pressed him further.  
"What is it?"  
"I'm not so convinced she's as innocent as we previously thought."  
Taken aback, Batman took a tentative step backwards, reeling from what Jim Gordon had shared with him.  
"What?"  
  
"Things aren't adding up," Gordon replied, his defensiveness on the rise. "Joker's flawless escape, her mysterious disappearance shortly after canceling all traceable forms of identity, the fact that she is still alive well over two weeks after her alleged kidnapping even though Joker has never kept hostages for more than a few hours...and now this insane radio show with her cute little introduction?"  
Shaking his head in disbelief, Batman replied, "I can't believe what you're suggesting. I honestly can't."  
Gordon pursed his lips and looked at Batman with a mingled sense of sympathy and hope. "I know you can't. Which is why I so desperately want to be wrong."  
  


\-------

Enjoying the rare indulgence of a novel in bed, Joan Leland was finally leaving another tumultuous work day behind her. She was just about to fully lose herself in the world of Elizabeth Bennet's wit, Mr. Darcy's good looks and other Regency satire when her phone rang. Her house phone. 

"Hello?"

"Do you still have fresh batches of the antidote to fear toxin?" An out of breath male voice whispered at her.

"Who is this?"

"Joan, answer me, quickly!"

"Jonathan?" Joan whispered in alarm. "What's going on?"

"I need you to hurry to Arkham. One of your patients is in need of immediate care."

"And he needs the antidote?" Joan reiterates as she hops out of bed and begins to dress, cradling the phone from one ear to the next as needed.

"It may not even work," Jonathan admits, speaking more to himself than his former colleague. "The damage may have sent him beyond the point of no return."

"Dr. Bartholomew is on duty-"

"No! He's your patient. You always..." Jonathan sighed. "You always took the best care of him."

"It's Thomas Schiff," Joan half moans with horror. "Oh, god. Jonathan, what happened?"

"Never mind. Just get to him, quickly!"

"Jonathan, I want you to be there when I get to Arkham. Stay and tell me everything; let me help you! You know better than anyone that recovery is possible."

Under normal circumstances, Jonathan would argue he isn't remotely unwell, but enlightened, evolved. Tonight, however, his rage was focused elsewhere, and nowhere near the one person who stood a chance at helping Thomas.

"I can't. I have unfinished business."

 

* * *

 

  
  
Joker knew there was something amiss as soon as he stepped out of the car. He turned back to Zigs and the rest of them as they peered out, seeming to sense the uneasiness too.  
"Wait here. Don't follow me."  
  
He continued down the road, tilting his head curiously as the house came into view. It was dark and eerily silent. Trying the front door, the Joker found it locked, deadbolt, handle and chained. Pounding on the door brought no one to answer it, leaving him with the only option of climbing over the fence. Going around, the Joker eyed that high fence with malicious familiarity. Quickly shaking his head, he made a run and jump for it, expertly hoisting himself up. It was only when he started to climb over that the memory came crashing down, assaulting his mind like some fucked up drug induced flashback.  
  
  
 _Struggling...the rain beating down on him, cold with sleet, making him heavy as he tried again to lift himself up, breathing through his nose, gnashing his teeth to deal with the pain...he couldn't afford to break the stitches now, crappy as they were...the rain washing the blood down his face, the bitter metallic taste seeping through his wounds and onto his tongue._  
  
  
His arms trembled and his breathing quickened, but with a ferocious growl he pushed the offending memory away and hopped over, deftly landing on his feet. Immediately, he saw that the door to Thomas's back house had been kicked open and left askew, the light still on. Taking the safety off of his gun while never taking his eyes off the house, Joker tentatively called out as he inched closer.  
  
"Thomas? Yoo hoo?" The inside was in his direct line of vision now, and Joker peered in. There was no one. "You better be in there you twitchy little queer." Stepping into the back house, the Joker looked for any clues to let him know where Thomas may have gone or been taken to. Finding none, he put the safety back on his gun and unconsciously began to suck on his inner scar, wondering where to go from there.  
  
"Is he gone, Mr. Joker?"  
  
Joker started, but was not altogether surprised as he bent down and peered under Thomas's bed to see Natalia hiding there, her dark eyes wide with fear. "Is who gone?"

"That man...he said he'd be back."  
  
Realization dawned on the Joker. "When did Scarecrow say he'd be back, Natty?"  
  
"I don't know...he just took Thomas and left. There was another man with him but I didn't see him."  
  
"Great. Crane has a friend. That's all I need," Joker sighed before smiling toothily at the little girl. "What happened?"  
  
Natty told the Joker what she had witnessed: unable to revive her brother after he had passed out, too frightened to disrupt her mother, Natty waited with her brother until she heard the all too familiar voice making its way through the yard towards her. That is when she hid and made sure to listen to as much as she could.  
  
"They said he was still alive," Natalia said as the Joker pulled her by skinny arms, dragging her out from under the bed until she had room enough to get up on her own. "But they didn't say where they were taking him." Her eyes began to well up as she looked up at the Joker pleadingly. "You'll bring him back, right?"  
  
Perturbed by her emotions, the Joker sneered. "Not really my job, kiddo. Call Batman." The sound of breaking glass made them jump, their attention towards the main house. "He said he'd be back, did he?"  
  


\--

  
  
The Molotov cocktail did its initial job of waking the residents of the Schiff home with Scarecrow readily waiting an inch away from the front door, gassing the first fool who opened the door to try and escape the flames. Casually stepping over the convulsing body, Scarecrow surveyed the hovel and its inhabitants. There were three others, one who was writhing in pain as the fire had caught his clothes and body earlier, another who stupidly locked herself in the bathroom, and the target of his choice, cowering on the couch as he approached her.  
  
When he arrived earlier, Jonathan had found Thomas comatose on the bed. It was his worst nightmare; the toxin had finally taken its toll on Thomas's brain, burning out from the sensory overload, and incapacitating him, possibly irrevocably. Jonathan could not even carry Thomas by himself, needing Jervis's assistance. After he had taken care of placing Thomas in more capable care than he could currently provide, Jonathan Crane knew it was time to finally take his revenge on the responsible party.  
  
He did not bring this terrible fate on Thomas. No, he was not the person to blame in the least. He tried to save Thomas! He tried to take him away from this destitution, these pathetic humans who kept dragging him down to their vile, bottom barrel level of wretched existence. This cowering, hollowed out shell of a woman was to blame for everything.  
  
"Getting a little hot in here, wouldn't you say?" he asked, leering at her as she tightly clutched the sides of her curly black hair, her eyes wild and beyond terror. Oh, yes, she recognized him all right. Especially with the mask on. "Might get a lot hotter where you'll be headed." He raised his wrist to her face. "But you can take great comfort knowing you lived your life the way you wanted, without a single thought of concern towards those nuisance children." He emptied an entire canister worth of the toxin directly in her face. As he made his way towards the back end of the house, Scarecrow felt a perverse delight in the hysterical cries rising up behind him.  
  


\---

  
  
"Oh, shit," Zigs said as he watched smoke and an all too familiar orange glow rise into the night sky.  
  
"I didn't think he was coming here to destroy the place," said Roach, baffled by the sudden chaos the Schiff house was plunged into.  
  
"He didn't," replied Zigs, exchanging worried glances with the other two. Harley tried to make a lunge for it, but the two men were too quick for her, grabbing her tightly around her shoulders and shins. "Stop it, Harley! Joker man will be all right, you'll see. Just wait here like he told us to."  
  


\---

  
  
Joker and Natty were rooted to the spot as screams from the inside of the house filled the night air and a noxious smell arose as the house was suddenly ablaze. With decades of clutter littering the house, it was only moments before the entire structure was a raging inferno. A dark figure emerged from the back door, a piece of broken furniture blazing like a torch held high in his hand.  
  
"Run, kid." Joker ordered abruptly as he locked eyes with Crane.  
  
"What?" Natalia asked, finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but the fire.  
  
"Didn't you hear me?" Joker shouted at her, causing her to look up at him, terror in her eyes for the first time since he had met her. _"I said run, goddamnit!"_  
  
Natalia needed no more encouragement as she dodged around the back house and out through a barely used fence door, the rusting latch coming loose under her powerful heave as she ran into the night, away from her home and her life as Natalia Schiff.  
  


\---

  
  
"Get out of my way," Scarecrow growled as he approached the Joker, forgetting about the girl as soon as she was gone.  
  
Lounging against the door frame, the Joker folded his arms and remained aggravatingly calm among the screams choking on the smoke and fear gas. The heat of the flames was beginning to make his face paint bead with sweat.  
  
"Where'd you stash him, Crane? Back at your place, all tucked into bed?"  
  
"I took him to Arkham."  
  
This was unexpected, and the Joker found the irony too bitter to not throw his head back and enjoy a hearty laugh.  
  
"Arkham? What did you do, just dump him at the gate, ring the bell twice and scurry away?"  
  
Scarecrow was glad that the Joker could not see his fiercely flushed face, as that was almost exactly what he had done, with Jervis's kind assistance and the key addition of calling Dr. Leland to alert her of his drop off.   
  
"Going to have a stand off with me now?" asked Scarecrow.  
  
"No," replied Joker with sincerity as he pushed away from the back house to let Scarecrow have at it. As soon as the Joker was a few paces of safety away, Scarecrow threw in the torch he had been carrying. It would be a slow burn, but a satisfactory one. "My schedule is jammed pack tonight. In fact, I best be getting back lest Harley has an aneurysm." Smiling at the callousness of his remark, Joker added flatly, "Oh, sorry."  
  
Scarecrow sharply looked away, biting down his internal rage. "You know," he said despairingly as soon as the Joker began to walk away. "I didn't get it at first, what you did to her, your doctor. I thought she was just for a good laugh. Now...I think I understand."  
  
Joker looked back over his shoulder with a guarded expression, careful to keep his voice emotionless. Scarecrow kept his face towards the flames. "You don't know anything about it."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Growing irritable, the Joker smirked and retorted, "Save the mental dismemberment for your own lab rat, Crane. That is...if sleeping beauty ever wakes up."  
  
With a guttural cry of pure rage, Crane lunged for him, but Joker merely ducked, grabbed Scarecrow by the arm and slammed him to the ground. Laughing manically, Joker placed his boot painfully on the raging man's chest.  
"You crack me up, Johnny, you really do. But seriously? Save it for tomorrow." Joker looked up at the back house, now fully engulfed in flames. "Watch your pretty lights for now." Removing his foot from Scarecrow's chest, Joker calmly walked away from the Schiff residence for the last time.  
  


\-------

  
  
Mayor Garcia stared at Jim Gordon, bleary eyed as he leaned most unprofessionally against the palm of his hand, slouching against his desk to keep upright and awake.  
  
"I'm exhausted, Jim. Between the robberies, three - not one, but count them: one, two, three - escapees from Arkham, the rising acts of larceny, this eco-terrorist thinking they're healing the planet with pipe bombs, the WANTED posters, not to mention the general crime of Gotham City I am just bone tired."  
  
"I know," grumbled Gordon, wanting to add that he, too, was awake and standing only by the miracle of caffeine.  
  
"You know I trust you, your methods and your judgment. Right?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"But after that clown's little radio show...I know it's time to call in some reinforcement."  
  
Commissioner Gordon did not like the sound of this. "Just who exactly is coming in?"  
  
"General Vreeland, a good friend of former Commissioner Loeb. He's already on his way with a special task force in case the Joker makes good on his threat."  
  
"He will," Gordon said bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thank you reading and thank you all so much for your patience regarding this chapter! I hope it was worth the wait.  
> \- The hair dye scene was something that came to me at 3:00am. I did not want it to be drawn out and full of the psychoanalytical stuff because that isn't what this chapter is completely about and I think if I went on & on it would have potentially stolen a bit of the focus. But I am proud of it and it is an important scene. I hope you liked it, even if it was brief.  
> \- LULZY RADIO JOKER! Live twenty-four hours a day, bringing you the best tunes of mayhem and murder! Yeah. Cunning plot devices escape me. But then again - taking two boats hostage and giving them a very Battle Royale set up of killed or be killed? I think the radio shit works. So no apologies here.  
> \- BTW: Download The Happy Organ  
> \- I wasn't going to include Eddie but yeah. There you go - a little taste.  
> \- Aw, poor Thomas. And bye-bye, Natalia Schiff (see you when you're Nocturna!)  
> \- There is nothing that Jon Bon Jovi can't cure.  
> \- Rule of Thumb: Don't fuck with Scarequeer!  
> \- General Vreeland! Raise your hand if you remember this psycho dad from B:TAS!


	15. KING OF HEARTS: SUICIDE KING: SELF-DESTRUCTION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End is the Beginning is the End.

When they returned home in the hours between Friday and Saturday, Zigs pulled Roach aside and insisted they camp outside that night. Zigs said that the house belonged to Joker and his lady that night. Roach was more than congenial about it, the summer night air was pleasant, and he confessed the size of the stately manor intimidated him. When they returned home in the hours between Friday and Saturday, Zigs pulled Roach aside and insisted they camp outside that night. Zigs said that the house belonged to Joker and his lady that night. Roach was more than congenial about it, the summer night air was pleasant, and he confessed the size of the stately manor intimidated him.

"I'm kinda glad Harley is with us now," Roach said as he stretched out on the nicely padded hammock in the backyard. Zigs had taken the cushioned lounge chair from its place by the pool, away from under the open sliding glass door leading to the master bedroom. "She's really fun and nice and doesn't get in the way like I thought she would."

"Oh, man," Zigs said, giving his friend a look of amused caution. "I hope you ain't in love with her."

"No, no, it's not like that." Roach paused before breaking into a smile. "I already have a one true love."

"Man, it better not be me," Zigs remarked as he curled up on his right side.

"Ha, ha, you should be so lucky! No, her name is Roxanne Sutton and she's perfect. She's a sexy stuntwoman in Hollywood California and I'm going to marry her one day."

"That's beautiful, man. Good for you. Now go to sleep."

 

                                                                                                                       

* * *

  


Squealing with fear-tinged excitement, Harley leaped on the bed and down the other side as she dodged the Joker's clutches. Her arms high in mock exaggerated silent film fear, Harley pranced around the room on her tip toes as he chased her around and around the room, wolfish growls snarling from his chest as he made lunge after lunge for her. Harley's pretend shrieks soon gave way to high-pitched laughter as she constantly twisted around to playfully swat at his grabby, hungry hands, her red nightie flouncing around her. Just as she came up to the bed again Harley got one foot on the mattress before Mister J decided she should finally, thankfully, be caught. Grabbing her around the waist and hips he threw his weight against her and down onto the bed they tumbled.

They laughed in unison, their voices harmoniously echoing throughout the room. Joker never eased his grip on her body even as he came to rest his face against her breasts, his ebbing laughter reverberating against her skin, tickling her. Combing through his freshly dyed green hair, humming to herself, Harley was dumbstruck to realize that his laughter had turned to sobs, his shoulders shaking as he attempted to muffle his cries into her bosom.

 _Oh God, what do I do?_ Harley cried to herself. If he lost control, how could she be expected to maintain hers? Should she comfort him, talk to him? _Hell no,_ realistic Harley shouted at her. _You will be seeing spots for a week if you try to make him talk._ Harley could feel her panic rising as she desperately sought for something to do, anything! She couldn't just keep lying there like a corpse. Sensing her agitation and desire to take some sort of action, Joker clapped a heavy hand over her mouth and nose.

"Shhhh," he shushed her, though the sound was not at all soothing, but a desperate warning to Harley, who was struggling to remain still despite being unable to breathe. After he slid his hand away from her face and down her body, coming to grasp her painfully tight once more, Harley decided that though it was lackluster and probably unhelpful, she resumed weaving her now trembling fingers through his hair and struck up the nameless tune again.

Several moments passed, his humorless laughing sobs slowing down, his shoulders shaking only every thirty seconds or so as if he had the hiccups. He kept his face pressed beneath her breasts, his mouth slightly open against the red fabric, his hand releasing its death grip on her and resting flat on her belly, rubbing her in circles, feeling the silky material of her nightie between his fingers. Why did the red not make him instantly think of blood anymore, but...her? Little red diamonds on her harlequin outfit, the little red scarification diamond on her otherwise smooth back...the red of her lips that seemed too unnatural in its comical lusciousness.

He wanted to be angry about it, but anger did not come to him; it was the calm before the storm he was about to rain down on Gotham and he found it damn near impossible to ever find fault with the world, in all of its hilarious, self-destructive, and morally bankrupt glory. And though it should have made his temper soar to be so vulnerable, he was surprised to find he did not feel it as such; if she made him vulnerable that meant a part of him was vulnerable. And the Joker knew he was many things, but by god vulnerable he was not.

He closed his eyes, resigning himself to his base desires just this once. ( _That's what they all say_ ). Sliding his hand up her side he lifted the nightie up, raising his head briefly to push the material above her breasts where she took it in her hand and removed it. He was quiet now as he rested against her naked body, his eyes still moist but he could feel his lashes blinking away the vile liquid as they brushed against her skin.

He slid his hand across her smooth skin as if feeling it for the first time. _Ridiculous. I've touched her dozens of times._ But it felt different suddenly, new. His hand came to rest heavily on her left breast where he squeezed and kneaded, much to her clear approval by the soft noises she made and the way her fingers went from stroking him soothingly to...something else, something more that he could not, would not, put a name on.

Covering her nipple with his mouth even as he worked it in his hand, lapping at the pink and pert stub and only scraping the tender flesh with his teeth rather than the usual bites, he adjusted his position, hunching over her torso, straddling her thighs. He felt her hand leave his hair finally and travel down his bare back, her fingertips trailing down his spine. Goddamnit it gave him fucking goosebumps. Quickly releasing her breast from his lips and hand, he stared down, expecting to see red face paint smeared on her skin. There was none; he forgot that he had taken off his other face earlier. He turned his head to gaze up at her. She was looking at him with nothing but...patience. Oh, desire was there as well, but when wasn't it? Only this time it wasn't her usual greedy self-absorbed wantonness. Now...he only saw himself reflected in her big blue eyes.

Without another moment's hesitation, he stretched out on top of her, resting on his elbows on either side of her head, and pressed his bare lips to hers, opening her mouth with his tongue. He explored her mouth as he had caressed her earlier, an uncharted territory...or one that had been previously thought to hold nothing of importance but in fact held something deeply buried within. He felt her hands on his arms, and taking one of her hands into his own he placed it on the waistband of his pants. Taking advantage of the sharp intake of breath, he plunged his tongue deeper, devouring her mouth, a small growl emanating from the back of his throat as his hips pressed down on her hand. Her index finger ran against the inside of the front of his waistband, coming to rest at one of the suspender clips before releasing it, quickly followed by its mate. With a hungry moan as he released her from his kiss, Harley finished unfastening his pants and eagerly pushed them down until he was able to kick out of them himself.

Her legs were instantly wrapped around his hips, her ankles together at the small of his back as he thrust inside of her, keeping his usual onslaught of crudeness at the edge. She took her hands and placed them on either side of his face, covering his scars with the palms of her hands, pulling a small noise from the back of his throat. His breath was ragged on her face and neck as he tried to find somewhere to keep his eyes on, grudgingly settling on her eyes. Knowing her well enough now to know that everything that transpired between them would securely stay between them, the Joker allowed himself precious few sounds of abandon. Is this how the people on the outside of his world did this? _Every single time?_

Slipping his arms underneath her back to support her as he raised up and sat with her in his lap, her well trained legs keeping him securely tight inside of her, the Joker worked her faster, his labored breathing coming fast through gritted teeth. Harley's guttural groans reached a fervent urgency as she ground against him, her arms around his shoulders, her nails scraping against his sweating back. Staring at her face, contorted with perspiration and ecstasy, the Joker impulsively reached up and pulled at the buns in her hair, letting them fall loose, the blond hair tumbling down past her shoulders in waves. He slipped his hand under her hair and watched as he lifted his fingers through the golden locks and above her head, taking several strands with him. Staring fixedly at his hand, he felt a brief moment of panic as if he had awoken from a nightmare in which he had no control over his sleep-induced actions.

The sensation of his hand in her hair, grazing against her scalp pushed Harley over the edge and into orgasm, tossing her head back, shaking her loose hair side to side as she clutched his shoulders and came. She clamped her muscles around his erection, catching him sharply as he hissed and pulled her tightly against his body, jutted his hips upward and came deep inside of her.

She wanted to ask him how this all came about. What prompted his melancholy, and was it the tears that drove him to that...very un-Mister J like lovemaking? Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Harley asked herself. She could only lie awake wondering, her curiosity keeping her from sleep as they silently lay together in bed. She was nestled up against his chest with one of his arms draped down her side, keeping her nicely close despite the humidity. Afterwards, he had lifted her and gently - gently! - placed her at the head of the bed and brought the sheet up over her body (all right, tossed it haphazardly in her general direction, but Harley knew what he meant). She had been unable to look at him, wanting to preserve the memory of this night _so badly_ that she was willing to stay up all night if she had to, and let her mind buzz with a seemingly endless stream of consciousness, burning with curiosity...burning, burning, burning. But those tears had frightened her and she desperately longed to make it better... _No, Harls! You have to know. Just...be tactful._ By the time Harley gathered the courage to raise her eyes and own her voice, the Joker had already fallen fast asleep.

 

* * *

  
  


Chickie and Marx arrived painfully early at the house in Bristol and to avoid conflict with the busty Bludhaven babe, Harley kept herself busy in the raiding the closet in the master bedroom, picking out items she wanted to take along to their new home...wherever that might end up being.

Downstairs, the men were packing the supplies left from the explosion, deciding what went with them directly and what stayed in the cars.

"Aren't we coming back?" Roach asked Joker as he walked by. Joker did not answer him directly, merely glanced at Zigs before continuing on his way.

"Nah, man," Zigs answered once the boss was outside, removing the exploding yo-yo's from a crate. "Time to move on."

Nodding, Roach kept to himself and waited for a spare moment before slipping upstairs and into the spare room he had been sleeping in. As he packed up his precious laptop, Roach took out a cell phone and dialed a number.

"Hey, it's me. Stop, don't say anything. I just wanted to call and tell you not to worry, I'm OK. I know what it must look like on the news, but I promise...I'm totally safe."

 

                                                                                                                 

* * *

 

The Bennett gang and Riley Family met with Harvey Two-Face at McGinty's early Saturday afternoon. Boxy had the restaurant/bar closed for the day, as were all of the businesses in downtown Gotham City in light of the Joker's threat.

"What about the remaining members of the families the Joker terrorized back in spring?"

"They want revenge, but not at their expense," explained Boxy, sitting across from Two-Face. "Not to mention they're a little unsure of you."

"Yes, I can understand that," replied Two-Face calmly, figuring it was too much of the broken down rogue Maroni gang members to join him so soon after the loss of their employer.

"What about Jonathan Crane?" Sean Riley, head of the Riley family, asked.

"Crane has no beef with me," said Two-Face dismissively. "He'll be targeting Joker like us. If he doesn't want to make it an official alignment, that's fine by me."

"Now what are we going to do about the cops? Mayor Garcia placed the city on the highest level of security, pulling every security guard, retired official, and jarhead with a spare minute to Gotham."

"Joker never mentioned rigging up the bridges this time," answered Two-Face. "Every expressway and bridge is jam-packed with citizens trying to flee the city, so that's going to keep a lot of hands tied. Joker has no interest in the average Joe this time...not any who don't want to stay, anyway. So long as our numbers outnumber the badge, we're fine. After all, we're not their priority." A small smile snaked across his face. "Judging from the fact that my name never appeared in the media, I'd say being a dead man walking is going to give Commissioner Gordon and Gotham's finest quite a shock."

 

                                                                                                                         

* * *

 

  


It was just about time to part ways with the fancy brick house in Bristol, Gotham Heights. Harley was doing a final sweep of the bedroom, packing her Army green messenger bag. Two guns, a switchblade, her make-up, a pack of gum, three exploding yo-yo's, the reversible Little Red Riding Hood puppet, a half used pack of matches and half a dozen M-80's were stuffed into her bag. There was only the matter left of her knife, their knife. She wanted it on her at all times, and did not trust fate to keep her and her purse together at all times. Explosions, maniacs, cops, gangsters, and a Batman were going to be chasing them tonight.

"If Mister J has taught me anything," Harley said to herself as she had a sudden idea, "It's to always have an ace up my sleeve."  


Chickie glared at them as they filed out the back door, one by one. Zigs and Roach left first, Harley following as she winked and blew a kiss at Chickie, taking a fiendish delight knowing the tacky moll was forbidden to tag along.

"Buh-byeeee!" Harley tittered, waving exaggeratedly.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she refused to return Marx's hug as he embraced her and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"Be good. Stay here and I'll give you a call where to meet us." Caressing her arm affectionately, Marx picked up a duffel bag filled with weapons and left. Picking up his own bag, Joker looked at the seething Chickie impassively.

"Here. I know how you're unable to resist shiny objects." He tossed a set of silver jingling keys at her, which she caught in both hands. "Consider it a wedding present." Her face softened slightly but before she could say anything in response, the Joker added, "Now be a doll and get some quicklime for those two bodies in the basement. Phew!"

Narrowing her eyes in knowing disgust, Chickie raised her fist to toss the keys back at him, but the Joker closed the back door quickly behind him, giggling as the keys clattered on the other side of the door.

 

                                                                                                                                   

* * *

 

  


Gotham City was a ghost town on the verge of war. The bridges to the Narrows and the spit of rock Blackgate Penitentiary sat on were closed; all businesses were closed, many boarded up with ply boards, furniture and anything else retailers could turn into a makeshift barricade in the hopes their livelihood will survive the chaos. The streets had not been this empty since before the invention of the automobile. Zigs kept the radio on so they could keep track on the goings on of their fair city.

"While evacuation is not mandatory, many Gothamites have taken it upon themselves to leave as quickly as possible. Of course, with the panic over the recent Joker threats and the Labor Day weekend traffic, congestion has reached an all time high for Gotham City. Officials are asking residents to stay in their homes and away from the downtown area, where a perimeter has been set up by Gotham PD led by Commissioner Gordon and General Vreeland. Volunteers from the armed forces have come to aid Gotham as they set up around The City Hall district, preparing for the Joker's next terrorist attack. When asked about the progress of the Joker's capture, officials refused to comment."

"Gordo doesn't want to let his precious citizens know that he hasn't the slightest clue what I'm up to, huh?" Joker commented conversationally after hearing this. "Can't say I blame him, really," Joker pressed his lips together and chuckled. "How _embarrassing_!"

After dropping off Harley and Roach at the evacuated Gotham Arena, handing them each a Walkie-Talkie and sending them on their merry car thieving way, Zigs drove to the parking structure that housed the motorcycle Harley had traded her car for so many weeks ago. Leaving their company, Marx took the keys and followed them to just outside the East entrance of Robinson Park where the Joker and Zigs abandoned the car, Joker instructing Marx to gather the rest of their company and meet him on the west end, right outside the City Hall district.

"Isn't that where the, uh, all those army and national guard guys are gathering?" Marx asked. Joker stared at him blankly.

"Probably."

With a deep exhale, Marx gave his boss one last nod before speeding off. Following his boss with a protective eye on their surroundings, Zigs stated quiet and alert. For all of the commotion the law enforcements was causing throughout the greater downtown area of Gotham City, Robinson Park was eerily quiet. Joker did not seem to notice or care, but the deeper they traveled into the park the more nervous Zigs became.

"Boss," he whispered. "Why isn't anyone coming after us yet?"

"You know," Joker answered with a titter, fearlessly walking onward, "that's the problem with you, Zigs. You just never believe that sometimes things can really be all that easy."

They jumped back as a warning explosive set off directly in front of them.

"Guess again, boys."

In the oak tree above them a woman in knee high combat boots, camouflage pants, and a deep green body suit lounged on a curved bough like a woodland nymph, her wavy bright red hair swept over one shoulder, a grin on her face as she peered down at them. Zigs went to draw his gun, but the Joker held out his arm and smirked up at the woman.

"Guess again?" Joker repeated, taking one long step forward, pretending to rub his freshly painted chin. "I'm rather pressed for time, but if you insist...I'm guessing you had a hand in making this little evening stroll through the park as easy as a, well, walk in the park for us."

"I did," she said carefully. "But not for you. Had I known you were going to be walking through my territory I would have saved a few of my more exotic devices to keep you out." She sighed dramatically, lifting one curl out of her eyes. "As it is, that was the last compost bomb on me, so I will just have to make due with a polite, but firm, keep out."

"I'm also guessing you don't really like me, do you?"

"You would be correct in that assessment."

"I've never done anything to you..." He narrowed his eyes at her, thinking back. "Have I...?"

"You're like any testosterone filled anthropoid; waiting for the perfect dick measuring contest to come along so you can piss all over the city, ruining it rather than just taking your fair share and enjoying what you have. I have no regard for pissing matches."

Turning his head and twisting his mouth in disdain, the Joker spat at the base of her tree, relishing the way she closed her eyes and grimaced.

"Keep your tree house, then," Joker said, waving her off as he stormed away with Zigs closely following. "But I'll be by to collect the rent first thing Monday - holiday or not."

  
                                                                                                                             

* * *

  


"Jonathan, I don't know why on Earth you are doing this," Jervis said in a hushed voice as they rounded the corner and crouched behind a city dumpster. General Vreeland stood on the steps of the Major Crimes Unit, a long antenna Walkie-Talkie in one hand, a gun in the other. He was alternating between barking orders into the communications device, talking with Commissioner Gordon, and yelling orders down at his subordinates on the street.

"I want this city flushed out like a backed up toilet, you hear me? Make sure every remaining civilian is tightly locked in their homes and you grill anyone, I mean anyone, about this lunatic. He's got a thing for making himself known in a unique kinda way. Real theatrical, you get what I'm saying?"

"Jonathan," Jervis hissed, tugging on Jonathan's sleeve. "Are you listening to this man? He's going to shoot us!"

"He's not talking about us, Jervis, it's the Joker they're after," Jonathan said, shaking off his friend as they remained in a crouched position and scuttled off down an alley to the other side of the building where a tank was being kept watched. With his mask in his hand, Jonathan turned around and grabbed Jervis by the shoulders, shaking him. "Do you want to test out your invention or not? Otherwise I'm just going to leave you here and gas these soldiers."

Something in Jervis Tetch's head clicked together as he went rigid for a moment before relaxing completely, a devious grin on his sly face. He pulled out a cylindrical tube with a heavy duty plunger from the briefcase he insisted on dragging along. Nodding, Jonathan stood back, flattening himself against the wall as Jervis stood up, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and calmly walked up behind the two guards at the back of the tanks, the tube poised in his hand, ready to inject. He struck the guard closest to him first, pressing the tube directly at the base of his skull and injecting a substance with a soft _pfft_ noise. The other guard, barely out of his teens, sharply turned to see his comrade spin to the floor. When the confused soldier bent down to examine his friend, Jervis struck again, making another injection in the base of the second man's skull.

"Gentlemen," Jervis said pleasantly as the two men knelt before him, lurching forward. "You should be honored, for you are part of an experiment that could potentially revolutionize mankind."

"Wrap it up, Jervis," Jonathan hissed.

"If you would kindly take your guns out to the front of the MCU and begin to shoot at your fellow guardsman, I would forever be in your debt."

The two young men staggered to their feet, their eyes glazing over and their mouths partially agape. They clutched their guns tightly with both hands and together walked in unison down the alley, wobbling slightly along the way.

"Remember," Jervis called, "Shoot to kill, boys." He sighed, an expression of pride on his face as he clasped his hands together. "Jonathan, it worked. It really worked. Did you see it? I have to follow them."

"Hey-" came a cry from the front of the tanks. "Who's there?"

Barreling past Jervis, Scarecrow already had his arm extended, gassing the three men in fatigues that were foolish enough to come back there. Coughing as the toxin wafted in his direction, Jervis blinked rapidly, keeping himself from tearing up.

"Did you add something to it?"

"A little," Scarecrow admitted, kicking the firearms away from the writhing, panic stricken men.

"Onions, perhaps?" Jervis snarked, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his eyes. Fortunately, he had already been inoculated against the toxin's effects. Rapid gunfire came from the front of the MCU building, with General Vreeland and Gordon shouting orders for the soldiers to disarm themselves. "I think that's your cue."

"Coming with?" asked Scarecrow as he climbed up on the ladder of the tank.

"Oh, no, thank you," Jervis replied, pocketing his handkerchief. He tapped the tube against his head and smiled up at his masked friend. "I have some notes to take."

Scarecrow nodded once before sliding into the porthole "Be careful."

"You too, my friend."

 

                                                                                                               

* * *

 

  


Pancaking the barricade of cop cars with the radio jammin' The Offspring's _Come Out and Play_ , Harley Quinn bounced gleefully in the driver's seat of the red and black Hammer Truck, a monster truck provided by the sorry losers at Gotham Arena. To her right was Roach in the El Bandito, an eleven foot pick-up truck with triple spotlights and sixty-six inch tires. Marx was driving the motorcycle and Joker and Zigs were on foot somewhere.

"I bet I crushed more police cars than you!" Harley taunted into her Walkie-Talkie.

"The hell you did," Roach snapped back petulantly. "I must've squashed maybe a dozen."

"Fifteen at least, hah!" Harley shot back.

"Don't count 'em," Joker growled over the Walkie-Talkie, "Just squish them!"

"Hiya, Puddin'!" Harley chirped. "Where are you? Want me to pick you up?"

"Not yet, pumpkin. Daddy needs to find our little Scarequeer friend first." He was walking around the One Gotham Center with Zigs, plastering bombs around the perimeter of the building. There weren't enough cops and guardsmen to post on every corner and the Joker was taking full advantage of this appalling lack of man-power.

"Okey-dokey, Mister J. You just-" Harley's voice was drowned out by a piercing screech of tires. "Whoa, what's that?"

"What?" Joker asked, thinking the Batman had gone after his goons and not him. _How rude._

"There's this big ol' RV that just barreled down from a one-way street and cut Roach off. Gotta go, sugar, somethin' funny is going on."

Harley tossed the Walkie-Talkie on the dashboard and watched as a burly man in his late fifties kicked open the door of the RV and aimed a 12 gauge shotgun directly at Roach as he stared flabbergasted from the other side of the windshield.

"Calvin McMulligan, you get on right out of that truck and get the hell over here right now, boy, I tell you what!"

Roach gripped his oversized chain link steering wheel, his knuckles white as he debated what to do. "Granddad," he whined, instantly regressing into a petulant child. "I'm working!"

The old man stormed over to the driver's side of the truck. "What the hell have I told you about gettin' involved with crazy folk? Now you get on in this here RV and let's get on back down to West Virginia. We been all over over every damn hill n' dale looking for your dumb ass. Play time is over!"  
  
"Awww, but Granddad,"

The grizzled man in the denim coveralls cocked his gun and aimed true. "Get on now."

Dumbstruck, Harley watched Roach slide out of the truck and jump to the pavement with his arms raised high. His grandfather grabbed him by the back of the collar and shook him.

"Boy, you just thank your lucky stars your mama is behind bars and can't strangle you for putting her through all this stress and worry. Workin' for crazy a clown and having some Batman chasing you around this here city like a goddamn coonhound."

"How'd you find me?" Roach asked as he was led towards the RV, gun jabbed in the small of his back.

"You ain't the only one who can trace a phone call in this family. Now say goodbye to yer little friend, Cal."

Roach turned to Harley and lamely waved to her. Cocking her head confusedly, Harley waved back.

"My name is Roach, Granddad."

Granddad McMulligan kicked his grandson into the RV, shouting, "Squish you like a roach is what!" before slamming the door shut, climbing into the driver's seat and speeding off towards the expressway.

"Uhh, Mister J?" Harley said into the Walkie-Talkie.

"Welcome back," Joker replied irritably. He did not like to be kept in the dark.

"We lost Roach." She paused, trying to figure out the best and concise way to explain what had just unfolded before her big, blue eyes. "I think Santa Claus just kidnapped him."

"What?" Joker half barked, half chortled, but did not have time to listen as the street began to vibrate and a loud rumbling noise disrupted the air. He looked over his shoulder at Zigs, who nodded and left the way they came, silently slipping into the shadows. "Forget it, Harley. Just keep going."

He pocketed the Walkie-Talkie and watched as an Army tank rolled around the corner and headed directly towards him. "Oh, good. I was beginning to think I was forgotten."

He stood his ground and waited, chewing on the inside scar with his arms akimbo. The tank stopped fifteen yards away, and after a pregnant pause the hatch was unlatched and a familiar face popped out.

"Nice night for utter ruination, Joker," said Scarecrow pleasantly, leaning down on top of the tank and patting the barrel. "Mine's bigger."

"Hmm...you sure about that?" Joker knitted his brow at Scarecrow, running his thumbs up and down the back of his suspenders.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jonathan sighed.

Joker smiled impishly and shrugged his shoulders as if it were obvious. "Thomas, of course."

"What?" Scarecrow replied, stiffening.

The Joker took out his out of the field knife and waved it around expressively as he continued on conversationally. "You know, Crane, you really shouldn't leave someone as _fragile_ as poor little Thomas is...him being so, uh... _needy_ ?" He gave a half shrug and tilt of his head, as if apologizing for using the term. "You know what I mean, though." A wide smile broke out on his damaged face. "Of course you do. You know him better than anyone else. I mean, I'm just his employer. Well, _was_ , I wager is the more, er, appropriate term now." He chuckled. 

"Thomas is still alive!" Crane shouted despite himself, wincing as his own emotions echoed around him within the mask. “And he never considered you his employer; he always, insufferably referred to you as his friend, and I have no conceivable idea why.”

Joker tapped his chin with the knife, rolling his eyes to the side of his sockets as he pretended to think on it. “Yes, I always thought that rather presumptuous of him, but Thomas has already displayed a pattern for poor taste in his companions.”

"Shut up!" Scarecrow shouted, quaking with rage. Joker ignored him, lightly scratching the back of his head with the dull side of his knife. Regaining an iota of self-composure, Jonathan pressed the issue. “But why you specifically, Joker? Why does he consider _you_ , the scummiest specimen of human waste, a friend?”

The Joker’s expression hardened briefly, his eyes flashing dangerously. “It doesn’t concern you, Crane.”

“I insist!” Scarecrow cries, desperate for a vulnerable spot to prod. “Let’s finally have this out.”

The Joker did not need to see Crane's burlap covered face to know he was getting under the former doctor's skin. Dodging the question as he would a batarang, the Joker cackled, "Oh, you already let it all hang out, Johnny boy! Thomas would read those sweet little love notes you sent him from Arkham. The poems, the sonnets, the filthy little fantasies! By the way, Crane, after this little tȇte-è-tȇte is over, get Harlequin on the phone, because you are in the _wrong_ business." Shrieking with laughter and emboldened by the fury radiating from Scarecrow, Joker added fuel to the fire, waving his knife as he sang mockingly, _"Oh, Johnny Angel, how I want him, How I tingle every time he passes me by. Every time he says “Hello!” my heart begins to fly!”_

With a strangled scream, Scarecrow leaped off the tank and charged straight for the Joker, who was already prepared and threw a yo-yo to the Scarecrow's direct right, exploding beside him and knocking him off his feet. The Joker was doubled over in hysterics, laughing and pointing at Scarecrow with his knife.

"You are so _pathetic_ ," the Joker howled. "I can't believe you are this weak, Crane." He shook his head mournfully. "See, this is where you need to work on your villainy...because having an Achilles heel like Thomas is never gonna do anything but knock you flat on your ass." With his knife held out, the Joker took a purposeful step towards Crane before a gunshot fired between them. They looked to see Harvey Two-Face Dent leading several dozen heavily armed men.

"We're not late for the party, are we?" Two-Face asked, staring directly at the Joker.

"No, no, no," said the Joker congenially, backing away from Crane and the other men. "You know what they say, Harv," the street behind him was immediately filled with just as many men, Zigs and Marx flanking either side of the pack. "Always arrive fashionably late."

Joker jumped back into the crowd as they flooded around him, already sparring with the Riley and Bennett gang members.

Crane was startled to realize that the majority of them were comprised of the escaped Arkham Asylum residents from the big break out initiated by Ra's al Ghul. A good lot of them were patients he had experimented on. He tried to crawl away from the crowd, but was helped to his feet by Two-Face, who dragged him out of the brawl and into an adjoining alley. Jonathan whipped off his mask in an effort to cool his sweat-drenched face. Realizing how filthy his suit had become in the scuffle, Scarecrow sneered as he began to brush off the grime.  

"Nice tank," Two-Face said, watching Scarecrow brush himself off.

"Thank you," he replied. "And thank you for grabbing me in time. I don't think many of my former patients are too thrilled to see me."

"Really? I'm not so sure. They seemed pretty damn happy to see their chance to extract revenge on you."

"True enough. Well, _revenge is sweeter than life itself. So think fools_. Thanks, again, Harvey Two-Face." Scarecrow turned back towards the fight, wondering how he was going to access the tank when he heard the soft click of a gun being cocked directly behind him.

"Harvey," he sighed. "Harvey, Harvey." Mask in hand, he held up his arms and slowly turned around. "What have I done to deserve your other face?"

"Rachel Dawes. The name mean anything to you?"

_Shit. Was he really going to drag this up?_

"That depends," said Scarecrow calmly. "Does the name Thomas Schiff have any bearing on your memory?"

Two-Face looked puzzled for a moment, then recognition filled his eyes, followed by suspicion. "That maniac who helped the Joker?"

"Schizophrenic, Mr. Dent," corrected Scarecrow with an air of defensiveness. "There's a difference. A difference, I might add, the Joker exploited for his own benefit."

"Yeah, I remember him. What's he got to do with - Oh." Two-Face partially lowered his gun, quirking his intact brow. "Really, Crane?"

"I'd say we're about even, then, don't you think?" Jonathan remarked saucily, refusing to confirm or deny the question in Harvey's eyes.

"But-"

"I think you ought to focus your attention on the Joker, Harvey Two-Face. That is, if you catch him before I do."

"I..." Harvey reached into his pocket and drew out his coin. Scarecrow waited patiently, finding the ritual fascinating. "Heads I'll leave you be and follow the Joker."

"Tails?"

"We'll continue this little chat." He flipped the coin: heads. Nodding amiably at Crane, Two-Face pocketed his gun and coin, turned and walked away. Jonathan waited a few minutes before running back into the affray, mask on and fear toxin canister adjusted for maximum dose.

 

                                                                                                                     

* * *

 

  


Jervis kept to the shadows, carefully observing the chaos his two experiments were causing in front of the MCU. General Vreeland was shouting through his bullhorn, trying to communicate with the two rewired soldiers. From his viewpoint, Jervis could see one of the men struggling against the mechanism, his hands shaking more and more with every shot at his brothers in arms. The other man had tears rolling down his cheeks, his mouth agape and trembling with a silent apology. After taking out three of his comrades, the tearful soldier turned his firearm on himself and without a moment's hesitation took his own life. The other man fired two more rounds, dropping another soldier, before the shakes were so bad he dropped his gun and clutched his head as he fell to his knees. General Vreeland and half a dozen officials raced towards the young man.

"Now hold on there," General Vreeland shouted to the policemen and women who had their weapons drawn and were yelling commands at the soldier. "Something's wrong here!"

Pursing his lips, Jervis watched the sweating soldier as he suddenly went into violent convulsions before retching and releasing his bowels. Everyone stood around him horror-struck until he finally groaned pitifully and fell onto the pavement, dead.

Snapping in disappointment, Jervis shook his head in dismay.

"Fiddlesticks."

 

                                                                                                               

* * *

 

 

The SWAT task force was soon on them, but they were grossly outnumbered and lost in the chaos of the brawl. In the thick of the melee, Joker tried to keep his eyes focused on Scarecrow. Joker made his way through the crowd, fighting off would be opponents along the way. Out of his peripherals the Joker saw Marx jerk backwards, then lost sight of him completely as he made it to the other side of the brawling throng.

"You know," Joker joked loudly over the people as he duked it out with one of the SWAT members. "I bet if you hadn't stolen the tank these guys wouldn't have gotten so touchy."  
  
"Don't you ever shut up!" Scarecrow cried, dodging a punch from one of the patients, knocking him off his feet with a kick to the shins. Spotting an opening, he pulled on the Joker's sleeve and nodded for him to follow.

  
"Headed to the Emerald City to look for a brain, are we?"

Ignoring the barb, Scarecrow led them down several blocks before a helicopter shined its spotlight upon them. After refusing to comply with their commands to surrender, the officials in the helicopter fired two warning shots, narrowly missing Crane. The Joker pulled a crude detonator out of his pants pocket and, raising it high above his head in a mockery of surrender, pushed the button. Scarecrow and Joker both crouched low to the ground as an explosion from several blocks back rocked the ground.

"What was that?" Scarecrow hissed, covering his ears two seconds too late.  
  
"That was the..." Joker blinked, trying to recall exactly which building he and Zigs had rigged. "I don't know, Crane, stop living in the past!"

  
Under his mask, Crane rolled his eyes before another not-so-warning shot was fired, starting the Joker as it hit the very tip of his boot. Spotting an underground parking structure belonging to Wayne Tower, Crane nodded towards it before going in, the Joker following. Finally out of sight from the helicopter, the men were able to catch their breaths, making sure to keep a safe distance from one another.

"Who knew a short-stack like you could run so fast!" Joker cackled breathlessly, his eyes glittering maliciously at Crane.

"Yeah," Scarecrow replied, flexing his right hand. "I guess I'm just full of surprises!" Quick as lightning, Scarecrow raised his right arm and a small sphere flew out from his sleeve, catching Joker in the face before bursting, releasing a cloud of fear toxin in the maniac's face. Shrieking in terror, the Joker clutched his face, clawing at his eyes as he buckled and screamed at Scarecrow.  
  
"Christ, what have you done, you sick fucking bastard!" He gagged and coughed, putting one hand on the base of his throat and the other arm draped across his eyes in pain. Falling to his knees, the Joker began to spew a string of unintelligible insults through his cries of agony. Scarecrow stepped closer, trying to decipher what the Joker was saying.

  
"I'm sorry," he said clinically. "I couldn't understand you through all of that hysterical terror you are currently experiencing. Would you care to repeat that?"

  
"I-I-I s-s-s-said," howled the Joker before abruptly turning his sobs into peals of laughter. Coyly, he peeked up from his half curled hands. "Just kidding."

"Oh, shit," Jonathan muttered as the Joker grabbed him by the ankle and yanked him to the hard concrete floor before straddling his torso and wrapping his powerful hands about Scarecrow's throat.

  
"Call me an anomaly, doc, but your hoodoo just don't seem to work on me. I want my money back!" Releasing Scarecrow long enough to rain his fists down on either side of the burlap mask, making sure to feel the bones and flesh underneath as he whaled down, relishing the shrieks of pain coming from inside the mask. Scarecrow tried to buck Joker off of him, but the clown was too strong, leaning his full body weight on Crane's torso, making it difficult to breathe. The pounding fists abruptly stopped as Joker jumped to his feet and proceeded to kick Scarecrow in the kidneys.

 **  
** **"When! I! Want! Drugs! I! Expect! To! See! Some!** **_Truly! Horrifying!_ ** **Shit!"**

  
Crane was curled up in a ball, his arms wrapped protectively around his head as the Joker continued to boot him in the back. Joker bent down and punched Scarecrow repeatedly, and inside his mask Crane could hear the vicious snarls and growls coming from the maniacal madman above. Unconsciousness was not far now...

As a final blow to the former doctor, Joker kicked Jonathan onto his stomach and gave him one last stomp, jumping onto his back before hopping off and spitting on the prone, broken body on the ground.  


"Worst customer service ever."

 

                                                                                                                                     

* * *

 

  


Two-Face left the Bennett gang and the Riley Family to deal with the lunatics, and not a moment too soon as an explosion followed soon after he left the area. Slipping between two buildings as a dust cloud wafted through the neighborhood, he spied on the closest gaggle of soldiers and police as they responded to the explosion on foot, their cars having been flattened into scraps of junk by a force not yet known to Two-Face. As soon as they left the area, Two-Face slipped out from his hiding spot and walked into the street. A mighty engine roared and Two-Face ducked behind one of the former police vehicles, marveling as an eleven foot monster truck came into view and crawled to a stop. Narrowing his good eye as he recognized the driver as the woman from the tabloid, Two-Face slowly took out his gun and released the safety.

 

                                                                                                                                   

* * *

 

  


Waiting until the helicopter flew past, the Joker took out his Walkie-Talkie.

"Harley? Where are you?"

"Kinda near the Clock Tower, Mister J."

"That's just a few blocks from where I am. Listen, drive over to-"

"Oh my God, Mister J!" Harley shrieked over rapid gunfire. "He's shooting at me!" More gunfire was followed by Harley crying out, "Hey! Those are my tires! What are you-" She screamed and the Walkie-Talkie went dead.

"Cheap piece of junk," Joker grumbled, shaking the Walkie-Talkie until a new voice came through.

"Joker?"

Surprised that it was not Harley, Joker pressed down on the talk button. "Yeeeeeeees?"

"If you want to see her again, come join us at Wayne Tower."

Joker pulled a face as he looked up at the building above him, jammed down on the button and groaned into the Walkie-Talkie. _"Fine._ Be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail _."_ He threw the Walkie-Talkie against the building, crushing the pieces of broken plastic and wires beneath his boots as he stormed off, huffing under his breath, "Women."

 

                                                                                                                             

* * *

 

 

Unsurprisingly, the Joker found them on the twenty-second floor. Two-Face held Harley at the far end of the office between a wide desk and a floor length window, a gun to her head. Joker held out his OTF cupid knife warningly as he cautiously took baby steps towards Two-Face and Harley.

"I'd warn you not to rub another man's rhubarb there, Harv, but the irony of this situation is not lost on me."  
  
"What took you so long, Joker?" Two-Face asked. "Your little friend here was waiting for you."  
  
Harley stared wide eyed and pleadingly at the Joker. Her make-up was smeared across half of her face where she had been punched, a small trail of blood dribbling from her lip. Her legs were tied at the knees and Two-Face held her up with one arm around her neck.  
  
"She needs to learn patience anyway," the Joker said banally, keeping his eyes on Two-Face.  
  
"We were having quite a chat, Harley and me," Two-Face growled. "Seems she has quite the crush on you."  
  
"Haven't you heard?" Joker said with a smile, a tug to his jacket lapel, and a step closer. "I'm a catch."

"You know, I never did understand why you painted a smile on your face, why you're always laughing. Heh. After talking with your lady here, though, I get it now."

"Oh?" Joker eyed Harley briefly.  
  
"Sure. You spend so much time twisting words like the person who twisted your face...Trying to make people believe whatever you want them to. Made me think you had nothing to do with Rachel's death...that everyone was plotting against me...and with this one-" he pulled on Harley, making her squeak helplessly. "You completely warped her entire sense of reality, brainwashing her so completely into believing you're some sort of god to be worshiped that you managed to brainwash yourself."  
  
"Have I?" the Joker asked lowly, keeping his eyes steadily on Two-Face.  
  
"You're really starting to believe the crap you feed to the public you terrorize, the police you harass, and the doctor you convinced to set you free. You think you're so goddamn important, some symbolic embodiment of chaos to disrupt life." He pressed the barrel of the gun to Harley's temple, bruising her. "I've got news for you, Joker. You're crazy. Nothing special about you...just some two-bit low-life criminal in cheap make-up who's convinced himself he's immortal and that the world needs him to pull the pranks, be the laugh before the lightning strikes."

"Gee, Harv, you're really digging in deep," Joker said, a wounded tone in his voice. A quick upward movement outside the window nearly diverted his attention, but Joker managed to hold Two-Face's gaze as he added, "Forget Quinzel and Crane; Arkham Asylum could learn a thing or two from Professor Two-Face, huh?"

"I overheard what you said to Crane; about Schiff being his Achilles heel. Seemed a bit hypocritical, don'tcha think? Oh, I'm not talking about love, you're incapable of that; and I'm not even talking about lust. No. You two are high on the power over your little prized puppets that you couldn't see the veil of delusion you draped over your own eyes."

"Don't you think you're doing me a favor then?" Joker asked, less than ten feet away now. He saw the confusion on Two-Face's good side of his face and explained. "By taking out the person who allegedly means so much to me? Removing that ego boost from my life? Reducing me to _my true face?"_ A smile broke out on his face as he watched Two-Face slowly start to quake with rage, realizing Joker was talking about him.

  
"I'm going to give you the courtesy I wasn't granted." He held up his coin. "For her." He flipped the coin, and amazingly it came out heads. An irritated calm settled in Two-Face as he tried to compel himself to shoot Harley, but this new train of thought in him...this _compulsion_ would not permit him. Follow the coin. The coin knows all, sees all, decides all. He slowly released Harley from his grip, and she gagged for air, bending to catch her breath as she quickly untied the rope from around her knees.

  
"Oh," Joker moped with an exaggerated frown. "That's too bad."

  
"What do you mean?" Two-Face asked, suspicious.

Joker looked at him knowingly, a mischievous glint in his dark brown eyes. "I like to make my own luck, Harv." Harley, freed from her bonds, stood between them with a look of heroic adoration in her eyes. She raised her arms to receive the Joker's embrace as he enveloped her in his arms. Stroking her yellow hair, the Joker's thoughts briefly flashed back to the night prior. He looked up at Two-Face, who stared back with a smug look of triumph. "Don't worry pumpkin," said the Joker as he kept his eyes on Two-Face. "Batman will probably catch you."  


"Wha-"

  
Cruelly propelled backwards, it wasn't until the sound of glass shattering hit Harley's ears before she realized that she had been pushed out of the window and into the warm night air. Her heart froze in those first few moments, a dream in slow motion, her mind trying to protect her from the horrifying nightmare of the reality of what had just happened. When she felt the plummet at last, Harley was finally able to let the blood-curdling scream rip from her throat.

  


"Why...did you do that?" Two-Face asked in a hushed daze. Joker remained calm, a stoic expression on his painted face. He shrugged, then slowly raised his head to look at Two-Face, the edge of his mouth curling slightly upward.  


"Because I can."

  
  


Something darted past her head and wrapped itself around her torso. Harley was abruptly pulled back, her abdomen slamming painfully against a heavy nylon covered cable wire, bruising her ribs instantly from the backlash. Shards of glass littered around her as she vomited, hearing the crude splatter on the pavement where her head should have been instead. Wrenching her head back, Harley saw the caped figure of Batman swinging into the twenty-second floor after Two-Face and the Joker.  


Two-Face was too stunned by the Joker's cold-blooded move to notice Batman as the dark knight swooped down on his wire and knocked Two-Face squarely in the chest, sending him sliding across the desk and onto the floor. Giggling gleefully, the Joker backed away to the other end of the office, behind the glass walls leading from the hallway. He watched as Batman subdued Two-Face and tied him up.  


"Always wasting your time with me," Two-Face grumbled dazedly, his head spinning from the knockdown he received. Batman looked up at the Joker.

  
"Uh-oh," the Joker tittered, waving one gloved hand at Batman before taking off towards the stairs.

  
"Stay here," Batman snapped, dragging the former District Attorney to the hall and leaving him there.

  
"Where the hell would I go, exactly?" Two-Face muttered under his breath as he watched Batman chase after the Joker.  
  


Swinging from Batman's heavy cable wire, Harley fumed with rage. Mister J pushed her! Out a window! _Out a window!_ So the Batman would be distracted and catch her! What a cad!

"I'll get you, clown!" Harley seethed to herself, starting to pick up a rhythm as she pumped her legs, swinging closer and closer to the edge of the building. Her ribs seared in agony, damn that Batbrain, but Harley ignored the pain, then channeled it at the Joker. When she had successfully landed just inside the building, Harley wiggled and writhed until she managed to slip from its grasp. Batman will have to work on this little toy of his, Harley thought to herself with a quick smirk once she ducked out from under the cable, sending it back out swaying empty in the night air. Wincing in pain as she straightened herself, Harley clutched at her midsection. The bruised ribs might match her bloodied nose, which was now cakeing up and making it difficult to breath, and the bruises she was sure were rising on her skin under her outfit, but now was not the time to sit and lick her wounds. With gritted teeth and rising temper, Harley made her way up the stairs to find that maniacal bastard.

  


"Would you mind giving me the number of your tailor?" Joker asked Batman as he sharply drew back his fist after trying to punch the dark knight. "I fear my suit doesn't hold up to as much wear and tear as yours. Hey-" He was knocked on his back by an uppercut. Blinking away the spots long enough to raise his legs and kick the caped crusader before Bats could descend on him, Joker wiped the blood away from his nostrils and looked around for something blunt.  


He had lost two of his knives and his only gun trying to ditch Batman on the stairs, and while that bought him time, it certainly did not help his situation when he pitched his weapons down the stairwell in a half-assed frustration induced attempt to dissuade the vigilante. He still had the OTF cupid knife and his push dagger, but both of those required him to be up close and personal with the Batman, who just did not seem to be ready for that kind of commitment as of late.

  
"Ooooohhhh," the Joker said, spotting a bag of golf clubs underneath a desk. Crawling on all fours, he narrowly missed another punch as he skidded across the floor and pulled out a nine iron, swinging it upward, clocking Batman right under his chin. Staggering backwards, Batman shook his head as he was hit by a dizzy spell. Cackling, the Joker stood up to his full height and shook his body, like a golfer preparing for the eighteenth hole. In a deeper voice than usual, the Joker began to sing as he swung a few practice swings with the club.

_"My mama done tol' me_

_Bring home somethin' for dinner_

_To fetch me a Batman."_

  
Batman caught the head of the club in his hand, wincing as he felt the sting of the impact through his gloved hand. Joker had no time to react before the handle was jammed backwards into his stomach, his face punched as he doubled over.

  
"Ugh, I think you hurt something important!" Joker exclaimed with a very weak laugh, clutching his stomach. He was weakening; Batman had really gotten in ten too many good punches. Joker felt himself winding down but still managed to stay fast on his feet.

By the time Harley found her Puddin' playing with Batman eight flights up, she could feel her consciousness slowly slipping away from her as the pain was deafening, searing her body with every breath. The promise of blissful unconsciousness was almost too great to resist. No, she had to do this...she had to let him know that she was most displeased with this turn of events. This was not how things were supposed to go! Her Puddin' was supposed to have grabbed her by the arm, pushed her _out of harm's way_ , ( _NOT OUT A WINDOW_!) and slugged that bad ol' Two-face before scooping her up and asking where it hurt. And now what was he doing? Playing around with Batman! This would not do at all.

Pulling the Joker to his feet by the front of his shirt Batman had no time before a strong, petite body knocked into him. Losing his grip on the Joker, Batman caught his balance on the edge of the desk, surprised to see Harley standing beside him, a look of pure fury on her face.

"That hurt!" She shouted, kicking the caped crusader in the face. Sinking to his knees, the Joker smiled his gruesome bloodied grin as he watched Batman and Harley begin to spar.  
  
"Dr. Quinzel," Batman cried as he deflected her blows. "I-"  
  
"The name ain't Dr. Quinzel no more, B-man; it's Harley Quinn!" Despite the excruciating pain, Harley performed a circle of flips before propelling herself atop Batman's shoulders, throwing blind punches as she squeezed his neck with her thighs, choking him.  
  
"Better than a blitzkrieg on Christmas Day," Joker tittered to himself.  
  
"You just couldn't stay outta my business, could you?" Harley snarled. "You just had to get involved!"  
  
Batman abruptly bent at the waist, pitching Harley forward and off his shoulders. Desperately catching his breath, Batman was unable to stop Harley as she stormed over to the Joker. With a groan behind his toothy grin, the Joker rose to his feet as they slowly circled one another, chests heaving, blood trickling and tempers flaring.

"I thought you loved me," she spat angrily, determined not to show the deep wounds she felt worse than any physical laceration he had ever marred her body with. Her face involuntarily twitched, betraying her true feelings.

"Now, Harleygirl," he said in a pouting reprimand. "You know you have always been _just terrible_ at thinking for yourself." 

"Not funny!" Harley bellowed, kicking him squarely in the face before quickly unsheathing her knife from the leather strap on her upper arm, clenching the handle tightly as she swiped the dagger at him, catching a deep wound in his right hand side. Astonished, the Joker gaped at her, open mouthed as he touched the wound with his hands, holding his shirt out in one hand while the other blood drenched hand rose before her accusingly.

"You tramp!" He exclaimed, feeling consciousness quickly slipping away from him. "Look what you did to my threads!" His eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed at her feet.

"Dr. Quinzel?" Batman asked, slowly approaching her from behind. Swaying gently, Harley felt the knife slide out of her hand, and started as it clattered to the floor. Just as Batman reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, Harley fell over, unconscious before she hit the floor. Staring down at the pair, Harley's head slightly inclined against the Joker's shoulder, his arm stretched outward above her messy blond head, Batman could not help but have the repulsive imagery of demented lovers.  
_Ridiculous,_ he thought to himself as he took out his communications device and contacted Commissioner Gordon.

"I have three. Dent on twenty-two, Joker and Dr. Quinzel on thirty. Better call the paramedics."  
  
"They're already downstairs working on Jonathan Crane. I'll send them up."

  


Three separate ambulances were called, Jonathan Crane's leaving immediately after he had been stabilized enough for travel. The other two were still unconscious, heavily strapped on stretchers as Dr.'s Arkham and Leland vehemently argued with the EMT staff about legalities. Two-Face was already tightly strapped in a straightjacket waiting in a very secure and official looking vehicle belonging to Arkham.

"What about the mob down at the City Hall District?" Batman asked Gordon as they stood on the side of the ambulance that held Harley Quinn.

"Dispersed as soon as Harvey left them, especially when General Vreeland's men broke their barrier. Not too many arrests on that end, but most of the Joker's gang was made from escaped Arkham patients and several of them were taken into custody."

"That's something," Batman said. _But not enough._

"Batman?" A weakened voice called to the dark knight. Peering around the corner of the emergency vehicle, Batman saw Harley staring at him blearily.  


"Miss Quinzel?" he asked, approaching the side of the stretcher.  
  
"Is my angel all right?"  
  
"What?" He cocked his head and bent forward to hear her better, afraid she was hallucinating.

  
"Mister J...the Joker...is he OK? We had our first lover's quarrel tonight...I think we got a little carried away."  
  
Sucking in his breath as the words washed over him like a bucket of ice water, Batman quickly looked away from her, realizing Jim Gordon had been right about Harleen Quinzel all along. It pained Batman beyond words to know that the vibrant young doctor had been assisting the homicidal maniac the whole time. He could never have imagined this, never in his wildest nightmares. When she had asked about the murdering clown her blue eyes, though dazed and dulled with pain, held something Batman was sickened to recognize as adoration. She was in love with the Joker. _What sort of human being could have any feeling other than repulsion for that vile monster?_ _  
_

"Batman," Harley whispered worriedly, her brow knitting in concern. "Is he-"  
  
"He'll live," Batman replied coolly, appalled by the relief that washed over her face before she closed her eyes and sighed contentedly, waiting for her ride back to Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane.

 

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

**(four weeks later)**

  
  


"This is Summer Gleeson reporting live outside Arkham Asylum, a place most recently associated with the surge of what the public has been calling the mask criminals and the string of extreme crimes. I am standing with institution head Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, who assures the Gotham public that the sun is once again shining on his facility. Dr. Arkham?"

"That's right, Summer. Today we here at Arkham are proud to announce the completion of our new maximum security wing, the addition of our women's wing, and upgraded security system. We feel confident that with these enhancements we can give our inmates the proper attention without jeopardizing public safety."

 

"Game time! Game time!"

"All right," sighed the nurse previously referred to as Ratched as she raised the remote control and changed the news to the baseball game, Phillies versus the Yankees, the regular season winding down as superficial bets were made daily in the common room on the outcome of the upcoming World Series. "I can't listen to that crap," the stern nurse grumbled to her coworkers as she sat down at her desk.  
  
"Listen to this," said the most recently hired nurse, fresh from nursing school graduation. She was reading a psychiatry magazine. "Music can be key therapy, especially when patients are highly uncommunicative towards other humans. Music can draw the most reclusive of patients out to the surface of their minds. Hmm." Snapping her bubblegum, the nurse leaned forward and raised the volume on the dusty desk radio, the dial fixed at the oldies station, and then turned on the P.A. system.

Stirring in his sleep, Two-Face cracked open his good eye as the melodious golden oldie of Jackie Wilson's Higher and Higher blared from every which way. Irritably, he turned onto his side and pulled his pillow over his head to drown out the sickening upbeat tune.

Clutching his midsection, Jonathan Crane paused mid-step and closed his eyes.

"All right?" asked the orderly with concern, the guard shadowing them also pausing but keeping a suspicious eye on Crane. He was still healing from the Joker's brutal attack and daily walks around the floors were routine until the room set up specifically for physical therapy was established, part of the additions Arkham had undergone in record time thanks to the generosity of an unknown private donor.

Just as he opened his eyes and mouth to reply, the p.a. system gave the trio a start when the sweet sounds of Motown came blasting through.

"I'm fine," said Crane softly, trudging on. Stiffening as he passed the cell containing a seemingly peacefully slumbering dark haired young man, Crane kept his eyes fixed forward even as he slowed and raised a hand to the glass, his fingertips running across the smooth surface as he limped passed Thomas Schiff, comatose and dreaming.

Lolling his head against the padded wall, boredom the bane of his existence, the Joker slowly began to tap his bare feet to the Motown melody, images of blood splatter and doing the Peppermint twist greeting him as he closed his eyes and burst into hysterical laughter, the sound reverberating down the hall.

Securely strapped to her bed, her half-lidded eyes gazing dully at the floor as her thoughts swirled about her in chaotic misery, Harley Quinn slowly raised her eyes to the ceiling as Higher and Higher piped through the P.A. system. Gasping joyously as tears sprung into her eyes, Harley smiled for the first time in four weeks.

 

"Dr. Arkham," Summer Gleeson tossed her strawberry blonde hair as she turned from an over the shoulder shot of Arkham back towards the medical chief, " is it true that you are taking a sabbatical from Gotham City?"

"That's correct, Ms. Gleeson. I will be taking an extended leave to pursue further studies that may help us understand the recent phenomena that has swept through Gotham."

"I hope your research is fruitful, Dr. Arkham, but who could possibly be qualified enough to watch over Arkham, and Gotham by extension, in your stead?"

"Thank you, Miss Gleeson. Gotham has nothing to fear, as my position will be temporarily occupied by world renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Hugo Strange. Arkham Asylum will be more than safe in his competent hands."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- THANK YOU EVERYONE for reading and commenting  
> \- The sex scene was HARD to write because of the head space Joker was in. It wasn't lulzy or rage-filled. It was sad and confusion, which I do not believe is beyond the reach of Nolanverse Joker. If you REALLY want to ask me about it and why it was written the way it was, I will be more than happy to talk with you about it.  
> \- Hammer Truck. Haha I couldn't help it. Every DC Universe has to get in on this dog and pony show, even the LEGO universe.  
> \- The Offspring's Come Out and Play is the perfect Batman villain song and I "blame" my friend Manik for my profound love for this song after he sang it while playing Rock Band. That number's for you, Manik.  
> \- Johnny Angel is a golden oldie performed by Shelley Fabares: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqsgFFLhZbE  
> \- "Revenge is sweeter than life. So think fools." Quote by Juvenal (Satires XIII)  
> \- My nod to Knightfall in which Scarecrow gases Joker and it has no effect on him & Joker knocks his ass out cold.  
> \- My nod to Mad Love with the window scene. Epic comic book that includes Harley's DCAU origin story.  
> \- My mama done tol' me is from an old Loony Tunes cartoon featuring Beaky Buzzard trying to capture Bugs (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwwoKkIxebk) The original song is called Blues in the Night: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-domL2Q4no  
> \- I wrote bonus smut chapters that take place during this fic, and will probably add them (eventually) to AO3.  
> Note: Although this fanfic depicts graphic abuse, please know I do not romanticize nor condone it. If you or a loved one need help, please know there are free and confidential resources there to help, such as: http://www.feminist.org/911/crisis.html

**Author's Note:**

> \- The "devil" thought Gordon has is actually a paraphrase of a quote from Ronald Knox, a writer and theologian.
> 
> \- “I’m gonna feed you your own thumbs” is homage to the Joker's line, “If you touch me I’ll feed you your own leg” from the Batman series No Man’s Land.
> 
> Note: Although this fanfic depicts graphic abuse, please know I do not romanticize nor condone it. If you or a loved one need help, please know there are free and confidential resources there to help, such as: http://www.feminist.org/911/crisis.html


End file.
